SPELL 


OF  TH 


rnia 


EN  O3  A.M 


'''',:.!. 


: 


; 


emus  8. 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  ROCKIES.   Illustrated. 
WILD  LIFE  ON  THE  ROCKIES.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


of  tfy 


*/^  »s 


THE   HOME   OF  THE   WHIRLWIND   (p.  78) 


of  f§e  (Roc6ie0 


3tfu0ftatiott0  from 


OU  RJEN 


(TUifffin 
$0e  (Ril?et0i5e  (press 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,    1911,   BY  ENOS  A.   MILLS 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November  ztjri 


to 
J.  UP. 


2051C23 


(preface 


LTHOUGH  I  have  been  alone  by  a  camp-fire 
in  every  State  and  Territory  in  the  Union, 
with  the  exception  of  Rhode  Island,  the  matter 
in  this  book  is  drawn  almost  entirely  from  my 
experiences  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  region. 

Some  of  the  chapters  have  already  appeared 
in  magazines,  and  I  am  indebted  to  The  Curtis 
Publishing  Company,  Doubleday,  Page  and 
Company,  "Suburban  Life,"  and  "  Recreation" 
for  allowing  me  to  reprint  the  papers  which 
they  have  published.  "Country  Life  in  Ame- 
rica" published  "Racing  an  Avalanche," 
"Alone  with  a  Landslide,"  and  "A  Rainy 
Day  at  the  Stream's  Source,"  -the  two  last 
under  the  titles  of  "Alone  with  a  Crumbling 
Mountain"  and  "At  the  Stream's  Source."  The 
"Saturday  Evening  Post"  published  "Little 
Conservationists,"  "  Mountain-Top  Weather," 
"The  Forest  Fire,"  "  Insects  in  the  Forest," 
"Doctor  Woodpecker,"  and  "The  Fate  of  a 

vii 


Tree  Seed."  "Suburban  Life  "  published  "  Rob 
of  the  Rockies  "  and  "  Little  Boy  Grizzly  " ;  and 
"  Recreation  "  "  Harvest  Time  with  Beavers." 

E.  A.  M. 


Con&nfe 


Racing  an  Avalanche I 

Little  Conservationists 17 

Harvest  Time  with  Beavers 49 

Mountain-Top  Weather 69 

Rob  of  the  Rockies 91 

Sierra  Blanca     .  107 

The  Wealth  of  the  Woods 121 

The  Forest  Fire         .         .         .         .         .         .137 

Insects  in  the  Forest 171 

Dr.  Woodpecker,  Tree-Surgeon         .         .         .       191 

Little  Boy  Grizzly         ^ 205 

Alone  with  a  Landslide     .         .  .        .221 

The  Maker  of  Scenery  and  Soil     ....  245 
A  Rainy  Day  at  the  Stream's  Source       .         .       265 

The  Fate  of  a  Tree  Seed 289 

In  a  Mountain  Blizzard 307 

A  Midget  in  Fur 321 

The  Estes  Park  Region 335 

Index 351 


The  Home  of  the  Whirlwind      (page  78)     Frontispiece 
Near  the  top  of  Long's  Peak. 

A  Snow- Slide  Region  ......       6 

Near  Telluride,  Colorado. 

Mt.  Meeker       .         .         .         ;   .      .         .         .          20 

A  Beaver  House  in  Winter  .          .         .         .         .     38 
Lily  Lake,  Estes  Park. 

A  Beaver  Canal         ......          56 

Length,  334.  feet;  average  width,  26  inches;  average 
depth,  /j  inches. 

Aspens  cut  by  Beaver    .         .       "...         .64 
On  slope  of  Mt.  Meeker. 

Wind-blown  Trees  at  Timber- Line    ...         76 
Long's  Peak. 

Sierra  Blanca  in  Winter       .         .         .         .         .no 

Spanish  Moss    .         .         .         .         .         .         .124 

Lake  Charles,  Louisiana. 

A  Forest  Fire  on  the  Grand  River         .         .         .140 
Near  Grand  Lake,  Colorado. 

A   Yellow  Pine,  Forty-Seven    Years  after  it  had 

been  killed  by  Fire          .         .         .         .         .   1 54 
Estes  Park. 

xi 


A  Tree  killed  by  Mistletoe  and  Beetles       .         .  1 84 
Estes  Park. 

Woodpecker  Holes  in  a  Pine  injured  by  Lightning  198 
Estes  Park. 

Johnny  and  Jenny      .         .         .         .          .  2IO 

Near  the  Top  of  Mt.  Coxcomb         .         .         .  .228 

Court-House  Rock      ......  242 

The  Hallett  Glacier      .         .         .         .         .  .250 

A  Crevasse 260 

Hallett  Glacier. 

Among  the  Clouds 272 

Continental  Divide,  near  Long's  Peak. 

Full  Streams 286 

Near  Telluride,  Colorado. 

On  Grand  River,  Middle  Park,  in  Winter    .  .310 

Snoiv  and  Shadow    .         .         .         .         .         .318 

Long's  Peak. 

The  Home  of  the  Fremont  Squirrel        ,         .  .326 
On  the  Little  Cimarron  River. 

Long  s  Peak  and  Estes  Park     .         .         .         .  338 


an 


an 


HAD  gone  into  the  San  Juan  Mountains 
during  the  first  week  in  March  to  learn 
something  of  the  laws  which  govern  snow 
slides,  to  get  a  fuller  idea  of  their  power  and 
destructiveness,  and  also  with  the  hope  of  see- 
ing them  in  wild,  magnificent  action.  Every- 
where, except  on  wind-swept  points,  the  winter's 
snows  lay  deep.  Conditions  for  slide  movement 
were  so  favorable  it  seemed  probable  that,  dur- 
ing the  next  few  days  at  least,  one  would  "run" 
or  chute  down  every  gulch  that  led  from  the 
summit.  I  climbed  on  skees  well  to  the  top  of 
the  range.  By  waiting  on  spurs  and  ridges  I 
saw  several  thrilling  exhibitions. 

It  was  an  exciting  experience,  but  at  the 
close  of  one  great  day  the  clear  weather  that 
had  prevailed  came  to  an  end.  From  the  table- 
like summit  I  watched  hundreds  of  splendid 
clouds  slowly  advance,  take  their  places,  mass, 
and  form  fluffy  seas  in  valley  and  canons  just 

3 


of 


below  my  level.  They  submerged  the  low  places 
in  the  plateau,  and  torn,  silver-gray  masses  of 
mists  surrounded  crags  and  headlands.  The 
sunset  promised  to  be  wonderful,  but  suddenly 
the  mists  came  surging  past  my  feet  and  threat- 
ened to  shut  out  the  view.  Hurriedly  climbing 
a  promontory,  I  watched  from  it  a  many-colored 
sunset  change  and  fade  over  mist-wreathed 
spires,  and  swelling,  peak-torn  seas.  But  the 
cloud-masses  were  rising,  and  suddenly  points 
and  peaks  began  to  settle  out  of  sight;  then  a 
dash  of  frosty  mists,  and  my  promontory  sank 
into  the  sea.  The  light  vanished  from  the 
heights,  and  I  was  caught  in  dense,  frosty 
clouds  and  winter  snows  without  a  star. 

I  had  left  my  skees  at  the  foot  of  the  promon- 
tory, and  had  climbed  up  by  fingers  and  toes 
over  the  rocks  without  great  difficulty.  But  on 
starting  to  return  I  could  see  only  a  few  inches 
into  the  frosty,  sheep's-wool  clouds,  and  quickly 
found  that  trying  to  get  down  would  be  a  peril- 
ous pastime.  The  side  of  the  promontory  stood 
over  the  steep  walls  of  the  plateau,  and,  not  car- 
ing to  be  tumbled  overboard  by  a  slip,  I  con- 

4 


an 

eluded  that  sunrise  from  this  point  would  prob- 
ably be  worth  while. 

It  was  not  bitter  cold,  and  I  was  comfortably 
dressed ;  however,  it  was  necessary  to  do  much 
dancing  and  arm-swinging  to  keep  warm.  Snow 
began  to  fall  just  after  the  clouds  closed  in,  and 
it  fell  rapidly  without  a  pause  until  near  morn- 
ing. Early  in  the  evening  I  began  a  mental 
review  of  a  number  of  subjects,  mingling  with 
these,  from  time  to  time,  vigorous  practice  of 
gymnastics  or  calisthenics  to  help  pass  the 
night  and  to  aid  in  keeping  warm.  The  first 
subject  I  thought  through  was  Arctic  explora- 
tion; then  I  recalled  all  that  my  mind  had  re- 
tained of  countless  stories  of  mountain-climbing 
experiences;  the  contents  of  Tyndall's  "Hours 
of  Exercise  in  the  Alps"  was  most  clearly  re- 
called. I  was  enjoying  the  poetry  of  Burns, 
when  broken  clouds  and  a  glowing  eastern  sky 
claimed  all  attention  until  it  was  light  enough 
to  get  off  the  promontory. 

Planning  to  go  down  the  west  side,  I  crossed 
the  table-like  top,  found,  after  many  trials, 
a  break  in  the  enormous  snow-cornice,  and 

5 


of 


started  down  the  steep  slope.  It  was  a  danger- 
ous descent,  for  the  rock  was  steep  and  smooth 
as  a  wall,  and  was  overladen  with  snow  which 
might  slip  at  any  moment.  I  descended  slowly 
and  with  great  caution,  so  as  not  to  start  the 
snow,  as  well  as  to  guard  against  slipping  and 
losing  control  of  myself.  It  was  like  descending 
a  mile  of  steep,  snow-covered  barn  roof,  — 
nothing  to  lay  hold  of  and  omnipresent  oppor- 
tunity for  slipping.  A  short  distance  below  the 
summit  the  clouds  again  were  around  me  and  I 
could  see  only  a  short  distance.  I  went  sideways, 
with  my  long  skees,  which  I  had  now  regained, 
at  right  angles  to  the  slope  ;  slowly,  a  few  inches 
at  a  time,  I  eased  myself  down,  planting  one 
skee  firmly  before  I  moved  the  other. 

At  last  I  reached  a  point  where  the  wall  was 
sufficiently  tilted  to  be  called  a  slope,  though  it 
was  still  too  steep  for  safe  coasting.  The  clouds 
lifted  and  were  floating  away,  while  the  sun 
made  the  mountains  of  snow  still  whiter.  I 
paused  to  look  back  and  up,  to  where  the  wall 
ended  in  the  blue  sky,  and  could  not  under- 
stand how  I  had  come  safely  down,  even  with 

6 


A   SNOW-SLIDE   REGION 
Near  Telluride,  Colorado 


(Pacing  an  Qfoafancfle 

the  long  tacks  I  had  made,  which  showed  clearly 
up  to  the  snow-corniced,  mist-shrouded  crags 
at  the  summit.  I  had  come  down  the  side  of  a 
precipitous  amphitheatre  which  rose  a  thousand 
feet  or  more  above  me.  A  short  distance  down 
the  mountain,  the  slopes  of  this  amphitheatre 
concentrated  in  a  narrow  gulch  that  extended 
two  miles  or  more.  Altogether  it  was  like  being 
in  an  enormous  frying-pan  lying  face  up.  I  was 
in  the  pan  just  above  the  place  where  the  gulch 
handle  joined. 

It  was  a  bad  place  to  get  out  of,  and  thousands 
of  tons  of  snow  clinging  to  the  steeps  and  sag- 
ging from  corniced  crests  ready  to  slip,  plunge 
down,  and  sweep  the  very  spot  on  which  I 
stood,  showed  most  impressively  that  it  was  a 
perilous  place  to  be  in. 

As  I  stood  gazing  upward  and  wondering  how 
the  snow  ever  could  have  held  while  I  came 
down  over  it,  there  suddenly  appeared  on  the 
upper  steeps  an  upburst  as  from  an  explosion. 
Along  several  hundred  feet  of  cornice,  sprays 
and  clouds  of  snow  dashed  and  filled  the  air. 
An  upward  breeze  curled  and  swept  the  top  of 

7 


of 


this  cloud  over  the  crest  in  an  inverted  cas- 
cade. 

All  this  showed  for  a  few  seconds  until  the 
snowy  spray  began  to  separate  and  vanish  in 
the  air.  The  snow-cloud  settled  downward  and 
began  to  roll  forward.  Then  monsters  of  massed 
snow  appeared  beneath  the  front  of  the  cloud 
and  plunged  down  the  slopes.  Wildly,  grandly 
they  dragged  the  entire  snow-cloud  in  their 
wake.  At  the  same  instant  the  remainder  of 
the  snow-cornice  was  suddenly  enveloped  in 
another  explosive  snow-cloud  effect. 

A  general  slide  had  started.  I  whirled  to 
escape,  pointed  my  skees  down  the  slope,  —  and 
went.  In  less  than  half  a  minute  a  tremendous 
snow  avalanche,  one  hundred  or  perhaps  two 
hundred  feet  deep  and  five  or  six  hundred  feet 
long,  thundered  over  the  spot  where  I  had  stood. 

There  was  no  chance  to  dodge,  no  time  to 
climb  out  of  the  way.  The  only  hope  of  escape 
lay  in  outrunning  the  magnificent  monster.  It 
came  crashing  and  thundering  after  me  as  swift 
as  a  gale  and  more  all-sweeping  and  destructive 
than  an  earthquake  tidal  wave. 

8 


an 

I  made  a  desperate  start.  Friction  almost 
ceases  to  be  a  factor  with  skees  on  a  snowy 
steep,  and  in  less  than  a  hundred  yards  I  was 
going  like  the  wind.  For  the  first  quarter  of  a 
mile,  to  the  upper  end  of  the  gulch,  was  smooth 
coasting,  and  down  this  I  shot,  with  the  ava- 
lanche, comet-tailed  with  snow-dust,  in  close 
pursuit.  A  race  for  life  was  on. { 

The  gulch  down  which  I  must  go  began  with  a 
rocky  gorge  and  continued  downward,  an  enor- 
mous U-shaped  depression  between  high  moun- 
tain-ridges. Here  and  there  it  expanded  and 
then  contracted,  and  it  was  broken  with  granite 
crags  and  ribs.  It  was  piled  and  bristled  with 
ten  thousand  fire-killed  trees.  To  coast  through 
all  these  snow-clad  obstructions  at  breakneck 
speed  would  be  taking  the  maximum  number  of 
life-and-death  chances  in  the  minimum  amount 
of  time.  The  worst  of  it  all  was  that  I  had  never 
been  through  the  place.  And  bad  enough,  too, 
was  the  fact  that  a  ridge  thrust  in  from  the 
left  and  completely  hid  the  beginning  of  the 
gulch. 

As  I  shot  across  the  lower  point  of  the  ridge, 
9 


of  10* 


about  to  plunge  blindly  into  the  gorge,  I  thought 
of  the  possibility  of  becoming  entangled  in  the 
hedge-like  thickets  of  dwarfed,  gnarled  timber- 
line  trees.  I  also  realized  that  I  might  dash 
against  a  cliff  or  plunge  into  a  deep  canon.  Of 
course  I  might  strike  an  open  way,  but  certain 
it  was  that  I  could  not  stop,  nor  see  the  begin- 
ning of  the  gorge,  nor  tell  what  I  should  strike 
when  I  shot  over  the  ridge. 

It  was  a  second  of  most  intense  concern  as  I 
cleared  the  ridge  blindly  to  go  into  what  lay 
below  and  beyond.  It  was  like  leaping  into  the 
dark,  and  with  the  leap  turning  on  the  all- 
revealing  light.  As  I  cleared  the  ridge,  there  was 
just  time  to  pull  myself  together  for  a  forty- 
odd-foot  leap  across  one  arm  of  the  horseshoe- 
shaped  end  of  the  gorge.  In  all  my  wild  moun- 
tainside coasts  on  skees,  never  have  I  sped  as 
swiftly  as  when  I  made  this  mad  flight.  As  I 
shot  through  the  air,  I  had  a  glimpse  down  into 
the  pointed,  snow-laden  tops  of  a  few  tall  fir 
trees  that  were  firmly  rooted  among  the  rocks 
in  the  bottom  of  the  gorge.  Luckily  I  cleared 
the  gorge  and  landed  in  a  good  place;  but  so 

10 


(Jlacing  an 

narrowly  did  I  miss  the  corner  of  a  cliff  that  my 
shadow  collided  with  it. 

There  was  no  time  to  bid  farewell  to  fears 
when  the  slide  started,  nor  to  entertain  them 
while  running  away  from  it.  Instinct  put  me  to 
flight ;  the  situation  set  my  wits  working  at  their 
best,  and,  once  started,  I  could  neither  stop  nor 
look  back;  and  so  thick  and  fast  did  obstruc- 
tions and  dangers  rise  before  me  that  only  dimly 
and  incidentally  did  I  think  of  the  oncoming 
danger  behind. 

I  came  down  on  the  farther  side  of  the  gorge, 
to  glance  forward  like  an  arrow.  There  was  only 
an  instant  to  shape  my  course  and  direct  my 
flight  across  the  second  arm  of  the  gorge,  over 
which  I  leaped  from  a  high  place,  sailing  far 
above  the  snow-mantled  trees  and  boulders  in 
the  bottom.  My  senses  were  keenly  alert,  and  I 
remember  noticing  the  shadows  of  the  fir  trees 
on  the  white  snow  and  hearing  while  still  in  the 
air  the  brave,  cheery  notes  of  a  chickadee ;  then 
the  snowslide  on  my  trail,  less  than  an  eighth 
of  a  mile  behind,  plunged  into  the  gorge  with  a 
thundering  crash.  I  came  back  to  the  snow  on 

ii 


of 


the  lower  side,  and  went  skimming  down  the 
slope  with  the  slide  only  a  few  seconds  behind. 

Fortunately  most  of  the  fallen  masses  of  trees 
were  buried,  though  a  few  broken  limbs  peeped 
through  the  snow  to  snag  or  trip  me.  How  I 
ever  dodged  my  way  through  the  thickly  stand- 
ing tree  growths  is  one  feature  of  the  experience 
that  was  too  swift  for  recollection.  Numerous 
factors  presented  themselves  which  should  have 
done  much  to  dispel  mental  procrastination  and 
develop  decision.  There  were  scores  of  progres- 
sive propositions  to  decide  within  a  few  sec- 
onds; should  I  dodge  that  tree  on  the  left  side 
and  duck  under  low  limbs  just  beyond,  or  dodge 
to  the  right  and  scrape  that  pike  of  rocks? 
These,  with  my  speed,  required  instant  decision 
and  action. 

With  almost  uncontrollable  rapidity  I  shot 
out  into  a  small,  nearly  level  glacier  meadow, 
and  had  a  brief  rest  from  swift  decisions  and 
oncoming  dangers.  How  relieved  my  weary 
brain  felt,  with  nothing  to  decide  about  dodg- 
ing! As  though  starved  for  thought  material, 
I  wondered  if  there  were  willows  buried  beneath 

12 


an 

the  snow.  Sharp  pains  in  my  left  hand  com- 
pelled attention,  and  showed  my  left  arm  drawn 
tightly  against  my  breast,  with  fingers  and 
thumb  spread  to  the  fullest,  and  all  their  mus- 
cles tense. 

The  lower  edge  of  the  meadow  was  almost 
blockaded  with  a  dense  growth  of  fire-killed 
trees.  Fortunately  the  easy  slope  here  had  so 
checked  my  speed  that  I  was  able  to  dodge 
safely  through,  but  the  heavy  slide  swept  across 
the  meadow  after  me  with  undiminished  speed, 
and  came  crashing  into  the  dead  trees  so  close 
to  me  that  broken  limbs  were  flung  flying  past 
as  I  shot  down  off  a  steep  moraine  less  than  one 
hundred  feet  ahead. 

All  the  way  down  I  had  hoped  to  find  a  side 
canon  into  which  I  might  dodge.  I  was  going 
too  rapidly  to  enter  the  one  I  had  seen.  As  I 
coasted  the  moraine  it  flashed  through  my  mind 
that  I  had  once  heard  a  prospector  say  it  was 
only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Aspen  Gulch  up 
to  the  meadows.  Aspen  Gulch  came  in  on  the 
right,  as  the  now  slightly  widening  track  seemed 
to  indicate. 

13 


of 


At  the  bottom  of  the  moraine  I  was  forced 
between  two  trees  that  stood  close  together, 
and  a  broken  limb  of  one  pierced  my  open  coat 
just  beneath  the  left  armhole,  and  slit  the  coat 
to  the  bottom.  My  momentum  and  the  resist- 
ance of  the  strong  material  gave  me  such  a 
shock  that  I  was  flung  off  my  balance,  and  my 
left  skee  smashed  against  a  tree.  Two  feet  of  the 
heel  was  broken  off  and  the  remainder  split.  I 
managed  to  avoid  falling,  but  had  to  check  my 
speed  with  my  staff  for  fear  of  a  worse  acci- 
dent. 

Battling  breakers  with  a  broken  oar  or  racing 
with  a  broken  skee  are  struggles  of  short  dura- 
tion. The  slide  did  not  slow  down,  and  so  closely 
did  it  crowd  me  that,  through  the  crashing  of 
trees  as  it  struck  them  down,  I  could  hear  the 
rocks  and  splintered  timbers  in  its  mass  grind- 
ing together  and  thudding  against  obstructions 
over  which  it  swept.  These  sounds,  and  flying, 
broken  limbs  cried  to  me  "Faster!"  and  as  I 
started  to  descend  another  steep  moraine,  I 
threw  away  my  staff  and  "let  go."  I  simply 
flashed  down  the  slope,  dodged  and  rounded  a 

14 


an 

cliff,  turned  awkwardly  into  Aspen  Gulch,  and 
tumbled  heels  over  head  —  into  safety. 

Then  I  picked  myself  up,  to  see  the  slide  go 
by  within  twenty  feet,  with  great  broken  trees 
sticking  out  of  its  side,  and  a  snow-cloud  drag- 
ging above. 


^''WENTY-FOUR  years  ago,  while  studying  gla- 
^S  ciation  on  the  slope  of  Long's  Peak,  I 
came  upon  a  cluster  of  eight  beaver  houses. 
These  crude,  conical  mud  huts  were  in  a  forest 
pond  far  up  on  the  mountainside.  In  this  colony 
of  our  first  engineers  were  so  many  things  of 
interest  that  the  fascinating  study  of  the  dead 
Ice  King's  ruins  and  records  was  indefinitely 
given  up  in  order  to  observe  Citizen  Beaver's 
works  and  ways. 

The  industrious  beaver  builds  a  permanent 
home,  keeps  it  clean  and  in  repair,  and  beside 
it  stores  food  supplies  for  winter.  He  takes 
thought  for  the  morrow.  These  and  other  com- 
mendable characteristics  give  him  a  place  of 
honor  among  the  horde  of  homeless,  hand-to- 
mouth  folk  of  the  wild.  His  picturesque  works 
add  a  charm  to  nature  and  are  helpful  to  man- 
kind. His  dams  and  ponds  have  saved  vast 

19 


of 


areas  of  soil,  have  checked  many  a  flood,  and 
helped  to  equalize  stream-flow. 

A  pile  of  granite  boulders  on  the  edge  of  the 
pond  stood  several  feet  above  the  water-level, 
and  from  the  top  of  these  the  entire  colony  and 
its  operations  could  be  seen.  On  these  I  spent 
days  observing  and  enjoying  the  autumnal  ac- 
tivities of  Beaverdom. 

It  was  the  busiest  time  of  the  year  for  these 
industrious  folk.  General  and  extensive  prepar- 
ations were  now  being  made  for  the  long  winter 
amid  the  mountain  snows.  A  harvest  of  scores 
of  trees  was  being  gathered,  and  work  on  a  new 
house  was  in  progress,  while  the  old  houses  were 
receiving  repairs.  It  was  a  serene  autumn  day 
when  I  came  into  the  picturesque  village  of 
these  primitive  people.  The  aspens  were  golden, 
the  willows  rusty,  the  grass  tanned,  and  the 
pines  were  purring  in  the  easy  air. 

The  colony-site  was  in  a  small  basin  amid 
morainal  debris  at  an  altitude  of  nine  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea-level.  I  at  once  christened  it 
the  Moraine  Colony.  The  scene  was  utterly 
wild.  Peaks  of  crags  and  snow  rose  steeply  and 

20 


MT.   MEEKER 


high  above;  all  around  crowded  a  dense  ever- 
green forest  of  pine  and  spruce.  A  few  small 
swamps  reposed  in  this  forest,  while  here  and 
there  in  it  bristled  several  gigantic  windrows 
of  boulders.  A  ragged  belt  of  aspens  surrounded 
the  several  ponds  and  separated  the  pines  and 
spruces  from  the  fringe  of  water-loving  willows 
along  the  shores.  There  were  three  large  ponds 
in  succession  and  below- these  a  number  of 
smaller  ones.  The  dams  that  formed  the  large 
ponds  were  willow-grown,  earthy  structures 
about  four  feet  in  height,  and  all  sagged  down 
stream.  The  houses  were  grouped  in  the  middle 
pond,  the  largest  one,  the  dam  of  which  was 
more  than  three  hundred  feet  long.  Three  of 
these  lake  dwellings  stood  near  the  upper  mar- 
gin, close  to  where  the  brook  poured  in.  The 
other  five  were  clustered  by  the  outlet,  just  be- 
low which  a  small  willow-grown,  boulder-dotted 
island  lay  between  the  divided  waters  of  the 
stream. 

A  number  of  beavers  were  busy  gnawing 
down  aspens,  while  others  cut  the  felled  ones 
into  sections,  pushed  and  rolled  the  sections 

21 


of 

into  the  water,  and  then  floated  them  to  the 
harvest  piles,  one  of  which  was  being  made  be- 
side each  house.  Some  were  quietly  at  work 
spreading  a  coat  of  mud  on  the  outside  of  each 
house.  This  would  freeze  and  defy  the  tooth 
and  claw  of  the  hungriest  or  the  strongest  pre- 
daceous  enemy.  Four  beavers  were  leisurely 
lengthening  and  repairing  a  dam.  A  few  worked 
singly,  but  most  of  them  were  in  groups.  All 
worked  quietly  and  with  apparent  deliberation, 
but  all  were  in  motion,  so  that  it  was  a  busy 
scene.  "  To  work  like  a  beaver !"  What  a  stir- 
ring exhibition  of  beaver  industry  and  fore- 
thought I  viewed  from  my  boulder-pile! 

At  times  upward  of  forty  of  them  were  in 
sight.  Though  there  was  a  general  cooperation, 
yet  each  one  appeared  to  do  his  part  without 
orders  or  direction.  Time  and  again  a  group  of 
workers  completed  a  task  and  without  pause 
silently  moved  off  and  began  another.  Every- 
thing appeared  to  go  on  mechanically.  It  pro- 
duced a  strange  feeling  to  see  so  many  workers 
doing  so  many  kinds  of  work  effectively  and 
automatically.  Again  and  again  I  listened  for 

22 


the  superintendent's  voice ;  constantly  I  watched 
to  see  the  overseer  move  among  them;  but  I 
listened  and  watched  in  vain.  Yet  I  feel  that 
some  of  the  patriarchal  fellows  must  have  car- 
ried a  general  plan  of  the  work,  and  that  during 
its  progress  orders  and  directions  that  I  could 
not  comprehend  were  given  from  time  to  time. 
The  work  was  at  its  height  a  little  before  mid- 
day. Nowadays  it  is  rare  for  a  beaver  to  work 
in  daylight.  Men  and  guns  have  prevented  day- 
light workers  from  leaving  descendants.  These 
not  only  worked  but  played  by  day.  One  morn- 
ing for  more  than  an  hour  there  was  a  general 
frolic,  in  which  the  entire  population  appeared 
to  take  part.  They  raced,  dived,  crowded  in 
general  mix-ups,  whacked  the  water  with  their 
tails,  wrestled,  and  dived  again.  There  were 
two  or  three  play-centres,  but  the  play  went 
on  without  intermission,  and  as  their  position 
constantly  changed,  the  merrymakers  splashed 
water  all  over  the  main  pond  before  they  calmed 
down  and  in  silence  returned  to  work.  I  gave 
most  attention  to  the  harvesters,  who  felled  the 
aspens  and  moved  them,  bodily  or  in  sections, 

23 


of 


by  land  and  water  to  the  harvest  piles.  One 
tree  on  the  shore  of  the  pond  which  was  felled 
into  the  water  was  eight  inches  in  diameter  and 
fifteen  feet  high.  Without  having  even  a  limb 
cut  off,  it  was  floated  to  the  nearest  harvest  pile. 
Another,  about  the  same  size,  which  was  pro- 
cured some  fifty  feet  from  the  water,  was  cut  into 
four  sections  and  its  branches  removed  ;  then  a 
single  beaver  would  take  a  branch  in  his  teeth, 
drag  it  to  the  water,  and  swim  with  it  to  a  har- 
vest pile.  But  four  beavers  united  to  transport 
the  largest  section  to  the  water.  They  pushed 
with  fore  paws,  with  breasts,  and  with  hips. 
Plainly  it  was  too  heavy  for  them.  They  paused. 
''Now  they  will  go  for  help,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"and  I  shall  find  out  who  the  boss  is."  But  to 
my  astonishment  one  of  them  began  to  gnaw 
the  piece  in  two,  and  two  more  began  to  clear  a 
narrow  way  to  the  water,  while  the  fourth  set 
himself  to  cutting  down  another  aspen.  Good 
roads  and  open  waterways  are  the  rule,  and 
perhaps  the  necessary  rule,  of  beaver  colo- 
nies. 

I  was  impatient  to  have  a  close  view  of  a 
24 


beaver  cutting  down  a  tree,  and  at  last  one  came 
prospecting  near  where  I  was  hidden.  After  a 
prolonged  period  of  repose  and  possibly  reflec- 
tion he  rose,  gazed  into  the  treetop,  as  though 
to  see  if  it  were  entangled,  then  put  his  fore 
paws  against  the  tree,  spread  his  hind  legs,  sat 
back  on  his  extended  tail,  and  took  a  bite  from 
the  trunk.  Everything  in  his  actions  suggested 
that  his  only  intention  was  to  devour  the  tree 
deliberately.  He  did  most  of  the  cutting  from 
one  side.  Occasionally  he  pulled  out  a  chip  by 
leaning  backward ;  sometimes  he  pried  it  out  by 
tilting  his  head  to  the  horizontal,  forcing  his 
lower  front  teeth  behind  it,  then  splitting  it  out 
by  using  his  jaws  as  a  lever.  He  was  a  trifle 
more  than  an  hour  in  felling  a  four-inch  tree; 
just  before  it  fell  he  thudded  the  ground  a  few 
times  with  his  tail  and  ran  away. 

I  became  deeply  interested  in  this  colony, 
which  was  situated  within  two  miles  of  my 
cabin,  and  its  nearness  enabled  me  to  be  a  fre- 
quent visitor  and  to  follow  closely  its  fortunes 
and  misfortunes.  About  the  hut-filled  pond  I 
lingered  when  it  was  covered  with  winter's 

25 


of 


white,  when  fringed  with  the  gentian's  blue, 
and  while  decked  with  the  pond-lily's  yellow 
glory. 

Ruin  befell  it  before  my  first  visit  ended. 
One  morning,  while  watching  from  the  boulder- 
pile,  I  noticed  an  occasional  flake  of  ash  drop- 
ping into  the  pond.  Soon  smoke  scented  the  air, 
then  came  the  awful  and  subdued  roar  of  a 
forest  fire.  I  fled,  and  from  above  the  timber- 
line  watched  the  storm-cloud  of  black  smoke 
sweep  furiously  forward,  bursting  and  closing 
to  the  terrible  leaps  of  red  and  tattered  flames. 
Before  noon  several  thousand  acres  of  forest 
were  dead,  all  leaves  and  twigs  were  in  ashes, 
all  tree-  trunks  blistered  and  blackened. 

The  Moraine  Colony  was  closely  embowered 
in  a  pitchy  forest.  For  a  time  the  houses  in  the 
water  must  have  been  wrapped  in  flames  of 
smelter  heat.  Could  these  mud  houses  stand 
this?  The  beavers  themselves  I  knew  would 
escape  by  sinking  under  the  water.  Next  morn- 
ing I  went  through  the  hot,  smoky  area  and  found 
every  house  cracked  and  crumbling;  not  one 
was  inhabitable.  Most  serious  of  all  was  the 

26 


total  loss  of  the  uncut  food  supply,  when  har- 
vesting for  winter  had  only  begun. 

Would  these  energetic  people  starve  at  home 
or  would  they  try  to  find  refuge  in  some  other 
colony?  Would  they  endeavor  to  find  a  grove 
that  the  fire  had  missed  and  there  start  anew? 
The  intense  heat  had  consumed  almost  every 
fibrous  thing  above  the  surface.  The  piles  of 
garnered  green  aspen  were  charred  to  the  water- 
line;  all  that  remained  of  willow  thickets  and 
aspen  groves  were  thousands  of  blackened  pick- 
ets and  points,  acres  of  coarse  charcoal  stubble. 
It  was  a  dreary,  starving  outlook  for  my  furred 
friends. 

I  left  the  scene  to  explore  the  entire  burned 
area.  After  wandering  for  hours  amid  ashes  and 
charcoal,  seeing  here  and  there  the  seared  car- 
cass of  a  deer  or  some  other  wild  animal,  I  came 
upon  a  beaver  colony  that  had  escaped  the  fire. 
It  was  in  the  midst  of  several  acres  of  swampy 
ground  that  was  covered  with  fire-resisting  wil- 
lows and  aspens.  The  surrounding  pine  forest 
was  not  dense  and  the  heat  it  produced  in  burn- 
ing did  no  damage  to  the  scattered  beaver  houses. 

27 


of 


From  the  top  of  a  granite  crag  I  surveyed  the 
green  scene  of  life  and  the  surrounding  sweep  of 
desolation.  Here  and  there  a  sodden  log  smoul- 
dered in  the  ashen  distance  and  supported  a 
tower  of  smoke  in  the  still  air.  A  few  miles  to 
the  east,  among  the  scattered  trees  of  a  rocky 
summit,  the  fire  was  burning  itself  out:  to  the 
west  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  crags  and  snow  ; 
near-by,  on  a  blackened  limb,  a  south-bound 
robin  chattered  volubly  but  hopelessly. 
'  While  I  was  listening,  thinking,  and  watching, 
a  mountain  lion  appeared  and  leaped  lightly 
upon  a  block  of  granite.  He  was  on  my  right, 
about  one  hundred  feet  away  and  about  an 
equal  distance  from  the  shore  of  the  nearest 
pond.  He  was  interested  in  the  approach  of 
something.  With  a  nervous  switching  of  his 
tail  he  peered  eagerly  forward  over  the  crown 
of  the  ridge  just  before  him,  and  then  crouched 
tensely  and  expectantly  upon  his  rock. 

A  pine  tree  that  had  escaped  the  fire  screened 
the  place  toward  which  the  lion  looked  and 
where  something  evidently  was  approaching. 
While  I  was  trying  to  discover  what  it  could  be, 

28 


a  coyote  trotted  into  view.  Without  catching 
sight  of  the  near-by  lion,  he  suddenly  stopped 
and  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  point  that  so  inter- 
ested the  crouching  beast.  The  mystery  was 
solved  when  thirty  or  forty  beavers  came  hurry- 
ing into  view.  They  had  come  from  the  ruined 
Moraine  Colony. 

I  thought  to  myself  that  the  coyote,  stuffed 
as  he  must  be  with  the  seared  flesh  of  fire- 
roasted  victims,  would  not  attack  them;  but  a 
lion  wants  a  fresh  kill  for  every  meal,  and  so  I 
watched  the  movements  of  the  latter.  He  ad- 
justed his  feet  a  trifle  and  made  ready  to  spring. 
The  beavers  were  getting  close;  but  just  as  I 
was  about  to  shout  to  frighten  him  the  coyote 
leaped  among  them  and  began  killing. 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  off  the  crag  I 
narrowly  escaped  breaking  my  neck.  Once  on 
the  ground  I  ran  for  the  coyote,  shouting  wildly 
to  frighten  him  off;  but  he  was  so  intent  upon 
killing  that  a  violent  kick  in  the  ribs  first  made 
him  aware  of  my  presence.  In  anger  and  excite- 
ment he  leaped  at  me  with  ugly  teeth  as  he  fled. 
The  lion  had  disappeared,  and  by  this  time  the 

29 


of  tfc 


beavers  in  the  front  ranks  were  jumping  into 
the  pond,  while  the  others  were  awkwardly 
speeding  down  the  slope.  The  coyote  had  killed 
three.  If  beavers  have  a  language,  surely  that 
night  the  refugees  related  to  their  hospitable 
neighbors  some  thrilling  experiences. 

Thernext  morning  I  returned  to  the  Moraine 
Colony  over  the  route  followed  by  the  refugees. 
Leaving  their  fire-ruined  homes,  they  had  fol- 
lowed the  stream  that  issued  from  their  ponds. 
In  places  the  channel  was  so  clogged  with  fire 
wreckage  that  they  had  followed  alongside  the 
water  rather  than  in  it,  as  is  their  wont.  At  one 
place  they  had  hurriedly  taken  refuge  in  the 
stream.  Coyote  tracks  in  the  scattered  ashes 
explained  this.  But  after  going  a  short  distance 
they  had  climbed  from  the  water  and  again 
traveled  the  ashy  earth. 

"  Beavers,  like  fish,  commonly  follow  water 
routes,  but  in  times  of  emergency  or  in  moments 
of  audacity  they  will  journey  overland.  To  have 
followed  this  stream  down  to  its  first  tributary, 
then  up  this  to  where  the  colony  in  which  they 
found  refuge  was  situated,  would  have  required 

30 


four  miles  of  travel.  Overland  it  was  less  than  a 
mile.  After  following  the  stream  for  some  dis- 
tance, at  just  the  right  place  they  turned  off, 
left  the  stream,  and  dared  the  overland  dangers. 
How  did  they  know  the  situation  of  the  colony 
in  the  willows,  or  that  it  had  escaped  fire,  and 
how  could  they  have  known  the  shortest,  best 
way  to  it? 

The  morning  after  the  arrival  of  the  refugees, 
work  was  begun  on  two  new  houses  and  a  dam, 
which  was  about  sixty  feet  in  length  and  built 
across  a  grassy  open.  Green  cuttings  of  willow, 
aspen,  and  alder  were  used  in  its  construction. 
Not  a  single  stone  or  a  handful  of  mud  was  used. 
When  completed  it  appeared  like  a  windrow  of 
freshly  raked  shrubs.  It  was  almost  straight, 
but  sagged  a  trifle  downstream.  Though  the 
water  filtered  freely  through,  it  flooded  the  flat 
above.  As  the  two  new  houses  'could  not  shel- 
ter all  the  refugees,  it  is  probable  that  some  of 
them  were  sheltered  in  bank  tunnels,  while 
room  for  others  may  have  been  found  in  the 
old  houses. 

That  winter  the  colony  was  raided  by  some 
31 


of  10*  (gocftte 


trappers;  more  than  one  hundred  pelts  were 
secured,  and  the  colony  was  left  in  ruins  and 
almost  depopulated. 

The  Moraine  Colony  site  was  deserted  for  a 
long  time.  Eight  years  after  the  fire  I  returned 
to  examine  it.  The  willow  growth  about  the 
ruins  was  almost  as  thrifty  as  when  the  fire 
came.  A  growth  of  aspen  taller  than  one's  head 
clung  to  the  old  shore-lines,  while  a  close  seed- 
ling growth  of  lodge-pole  pine  throve  in  the 
ashes  of  the  old  forest.  One  low  mound,  merry 
with  blooming  columbine,  was  the  only  house 
ruin  to  be  seen. 

The  ponds  were  empty  and  every  dam  was 
broken.  The  stream,  in  rushing  unobstructed 
through  the  ruins,  had  eroded  deeply.  This 
erosion  revealed  the  records  of  ages,  and  showed 
that  the  old  main  dam  had  been  built  on  the 
top  of  an  older  dam  and  a  sediment-filled  pond. 
The  second  dam  was  on  top  of  an  older  one  still. 
In  the  sediment  of  'the  oldest  —  the  bottom 
pond  —  I  found  a  spear-head,  two  charred  logs, 
and  the  skull  of  a  buffalo.  Colonies  of  beaver, 
as  well  as  those  of  men,  are  often  found  upon 

32 


sites  that  have  a  tragic  history.   Beavers,  with 
Omar,  might  say,  — 

"  When  you  and  I  behind  the  veil  are  past, 
Oh  but  the  long  long  while  the  world  shall  last." 

The  next  summer,  1893,  the  Moraine  site  was 
resettled.  During  the  first  season  the  colonists 
put  in  their  time  repairing  dams  and  were  con- 
tent to  live  in  holes.  In  autumn  they  gathered 
no  harvest,  and  no  trace  of  them  could  be  found 
after  the  snow;  so  it  is  likely  that  they  had 
returned  to  winter  in  the  colony  whence  they 
had  come.  But  early  in  the  next  spring  there 
were  reinforced  numbers  of  them  at  work  estab- 
lishing a  permanent  settlement.  Three  dams 
were  repaired,  and  in  the  autumn  many  of  the 
golden  leaves  that  fell  found  lodgment  in  the 
fresh  plaster  of  two  new  houses. 

Most  beaver  dams  are  built  on  the  install- 
ment plan,  —  are  the  result  of  growth.  As  the 
pond  fills  with  sediment,  and  the  water  becomes 
shallower,  the  dam  is  built  higher  and,  where 
conditions  require  it,  longer;  or,  as  is  often  the 
case,  it  may  be  raised  and  lengthened  for  the 
purpose  of  raising  or  backing  water  to  the  trees 

33 


of 


that  are  next  to  be  harvested.  The  dams  are 
made  of  sticks,  small  trees,  sods,  mud,  stones, 
coal,  grass,  roots,  —  that  is,  combinations  of 
these.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  houses. 
For  either  house  or  dam  the  most  convenient 
material  is  likely  to  be  used.  But  this  is  not 
always  the  case;  for  the  situation  of  the  house, 
or  what  the  dam  may  have  to  endure,  evidently 
is  sometimes  considered,  and  apparently  that 
kind  of  material  is  used  that  will  best  meet  all 
the  requirements. 

Most  beaver  dams  are  so  situated  that  they 
are  destined  earlier  or  later  to  accumulate  sedi- 
ment, trash,  and  fallen  leaves,  and  become 
earthy;  then  they  will,  of  course,  be  planted  by 
Nature  with  grass,  shrubby  willows,  and  even 
trees.  I  have  seen  many  trees  with  birds'  nests 
in  them  standing  on  a  beaver  dam;  yet  the 
original  dam  had  been  composed  almost  entirely 
of  sticks  or  stones. 

Why  do  beavers  want  or  need  ponds?  They 
have  very  heavy  bodies  and  extremely  short 
legs.  On  land  they  are  slow  and  awkward  and 
in  the  greatest  danger  from  their  enemies,  — 

34 


wolves,  lions,  bears,  and  wildcats;  but  they  are 
excellent  swimmers,  and  in  water  they  easily 
elude  their  enemies,  and  through  it  they  con- 
veniently bring  their  harvests  home.  Water  is 
necessary  for  their  existence,  and  to  have  this  at 
all  times  compels  the  construction  of  dams  and 
ponds. 

In  the  new  Moraine  Colony  one  of  the  houses 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  some  animal,  probably 
a  bear.  This  was  before  Thanksgiving.  About 
midwinter  a  prospector  left  his  tunnel  a  few 
miles  away,  came  to  the  colony,  and  dynamited 
a  house,  and  "got  seven  of  them."  Next  year 
two  houses  were  built  on  the  ruins  of  the 
two  just  fallen.  That  year's  harvest-home  was 
broken  by  deadly  attacks  of  enemies.  In  gather- 
ing the  harvest  the  beavers  showed  a  preference 
for  some  aspens  that  were  growing  in  a  moist 
place  about  one  hundred  feet  from  the  water. 
Whether  it  was  the  size  of  these  or  their  pecu- 
liar flavor  that  determined  their  election  in  pre- 
ference to  nearer  ones,  I  could  not  determine. 
One  day,  while  several  beavers  were  cutting 
here,  they  were  surprised  by  a  mountain  lion, 

35 


of 


which  leaped  upon  and  killed  one  of  the  har- 
vesters. The  next  day  the  lion  surprised  and 
killed  another.  Two  or  three  days  later  a  coy- 
ote killed  one  on  the  same  blood-stained  spot, 
and  then  overtook  and  killed  two  others  as  they 
fled  for  the  water.  I  could  not  see  these  deadly 
attacks  from  the  boulder-pile,  but  in  each  case 
the  sight  of  flying  beavers  sent  me  rushing  up- 
on the  scene,  where  I  beheld  the  cause  of  their 
desperate  retreat.  But  despite  dangers  they  per- 
sisted until  the  last  of  these  aspens  was  har- 
vested. During  the  winter  the  bark  was  eaten 
from  these,  and  the  next  season  their  clean  wood 
was  used  in  the  walls  of  a  new  house. 

One  spring  I  several  times  visited  a  number  of 
colonies  while  trying  to  determine  the  number 
of  young  brought  forth  at  a  birth.  Six  furry 
little  fellows  sunning  themselves  on  top  of  their 
rude  home  were  the  first  discovery;  this  was  the 
twelfth  of  May.  By  the  close  of  the  month  I 
had  come  in  sight  of  many  youngsters,  and 
found  the  average  number  to  be  five.  One 
mother  proudly  exhibited  eight,  while  another, 
one  who  all  winter  had  been  harassed  by  trap- 

36 


llttfft  (Consemftontefe 

pers  and  who  lived  in  a  burrow  on  the  bank, 
could  display  but  one.  In  the  Moraine  Colony 
the  three  sets  of  youngsters  numbered  two, 
three,  and  five.  Great  times  these  had  as  they 
were  growing  up.  They  played  over  the  house, 
and  such  fun  they  had  nosing  and  pushing  each 
other  off  a  large  boulder  into  the  water !  A  thou- 
sand merry  ripples  they  sent  to  the  shore  as 
they  raced,  wrestled,  and  dived  in  the  pond, 
both  in  the  sunshine  and  in  the  shadows  of  the 
willows  along  the  shore. 

The  beaver  has  a  rich  birthright,  though  born 
in  a  windowless  hut  of  mud.  Close  to  the  primi- 
tive place  of  his  birth  the  wild  folk  of  both  woods 
and  water  meet  and  often  mingle;  around  it 
are  the  ever-changing,  never-ending  scenes  and 
silences  of  the  water  or  the  shore.  He  grows  up 
with  the  many-sided  wild,  playing  amid  the 
enameled  flowers,  the  great  boulders,  —  the  Ice 
King's  marbles,  —  and  the  fallen  logs  in  the 
edge  of  the  mysterious  forest;  learning  to  swim 
and  slide;  listening  to  the  strong,  harmonious 
stir  of  wind  and  water;  living  with  the  stars  in 
the  sky  and  the  stars  in  the  pond;  beginning 

37 


of 


serious  life  when  brilliant  clouds  of  color  enrich 
the  hills;  helping  to  harvest  the  trees  that  wear 
the  robes  of  gold,  while  the  birds  go  by  for 
the  southland  in  the  reflective  autumn  days.  If 
Mother  Nature  should  ever  call  me  to  live  upon 
another  planet  I  could  wish  that  I  might  be 
born  a  beaver,  to  inhabit  a  house  in  the  water. 
The  autumn  of  the  year  when  I  watched  the 
young  beavers  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  some 
immigrants  pass  me  en  route  for  a  new  home  in 
the  Moraine  Colony.  Of  course  they  may  have 
been  only  visitors,  or  have  come  temporarily  to 
assist  in  the  harvesting;  but  I  like  to  think  of 
them  as  immigrants,  and  a  number  of  things 
testified  that  immigrants  they  were.  One  even- 
ing I  had  long  been  lying  on  a  boulder  by  the 
stream  below  the  colony,  waiting  for  a  gift  from 
the  gods.  It  came.  Out  of  the  water  within  ten 
feet  of  me  scrambled  the  most  patriarchal,  as 
well  as  the  largest,  beaver  that  I  have  ever  seen. 
I  wanted  to  take  off  my  hat  to  him,  I  wanted  to 
ask  him  to  tell  me  the  story  of  his  life,  but  from 
long  habit  I  simply  lay  still  and  watched  and 
thought  in  silence.  He  was  making  a  portage 

38 


round  a  cascade.  As  he  scrambled  up  over  the 
rocks,  I  noticed  that  he  had  but  two  fingers  on 
his  right  hand.  He  was  followed,  in  single  file,  by 
four  others ;  one  of  these  was  minus  a  finger  on 
the  left  hand.  The  next  morning  I  read  that 
five  immigrants  had  arrived  in  the  Moraine 
Colony.  They  had  registered  their  footprints 
in  the  muddy  margin  of  the  lower  pond.  Had 
an  agent  been  sent  to  invite  these  colonists,  or 
had  they  come  out  of  their  own  adventurous 
spirit?  The  day  following  their  arrival  I  trailed 
them  backward  in  the  hope  of  learning  whence 
they  came  and  why  they  had  moved.  They  had 
traveled  in  the  water  most  of  the  time;  but  in 
places  they  had  come  out  on  the  bank  to  go 
round  a  waterfall  or  to  avoid  an  obstruction. 
Here  and  there  I  saw  their  tracks  in  the  mud 
and  traced  them  to  a  beaver  settlement  in  which 
the  houses  and  dams  had  been  recently  wrecked. 
A  near-by  rancher  told  me  that  he  had  been 
"making  it  hot"  for  all  beavers  in  his  meadow. 
During  the  next  two  years  I  occasionally  saw 
this  patriarchal  beaver  or  his  tracks  thereabout. 
It  is  the  custom  among  old  male  beavers  to 
39 


of 


idle  away  two  or  three  months  of  each  summer 
in  exploring  the  neighboring  brooks  and  streams. 
But  they  never  fail  to  return  in  time  for  autumn 
activities.  It  thus  becomes  plain  how,  when  an 
old  colony  needs  to  move,  some  one  in  it  knows 
where  to  go  and  the  route  to  follow. 

I  had  enjoyed  the  ways  of  "our  first  engi- 
neers" for  several  years  before  it  dawned  upon 
me  that  their  works  might  be  useful  to  man  and 
that  the  beaver  might  justly  be  called  the  first 
conservationist.  One  dry  winter  the  stream 
through  the  Moraine  Colony  ran  low  and  froze 
to  the  bottom,  and  the  only  trout  in  it  that 
survived  were  those  in  the  deep  holes  of  these 
beaver  ponds.  'Another  demonstration  of  their 
usefulness  came  one  gray  day.  The  easy  rain  of 
two  days  ended  in  a  heavy  downpour  and  a 
deluge  of  water  on  the  mountainside  above. 
This  mountain-slope  was  still  barren  from  the 
forest  fire.  It  had  but  little  to  absorb  or  delay 
the  excess  of  water,  which  was  speedily  shed 
into  the  stream  below.  Flooding  down  the 
stream's  channel  came  a  roaring  avalanche  or 
waterslide,  with  a  rubbish-filled  front  that  was 

40 


five  or  six  feet  high.  This  expanded  as  it  rolled 
into  the  pond  and  swept  far  out  on  the  sides, 
while  the  front,  greatly  lowered,  rushed  over  the 
dam.  Much  of  this  water  was  caught  and  tem- 
porarily detained  in  the  ponds,  and  by  the  time 
it  poured  over  the  last  dam  its  volume  was 
greatly  reduced  and  its  speed  checked.  The 
ponds  had  broken  the  rush  and  prevented  a 
flood. 

Every  beaver  pond  is  a  settling-basin  that 
takes  sediment  and  soil  from  the  water  that 
passes  through  it.  If  this  soil  were  carried  down 
it  would  not  only  be  lost,  but  it  would  clog  the 
deep  waterway,  the  river  channel.  Deposited 
in  the  pond,  it  will  in  time  become  productive. 
During  past  ages  the  millions  of  beaver  dams  in 
the  United  States  have  spread  soil  over  thou- 
sands of  square  miles  and  rendered  them  pro- 
ductive. Beavers  prepared  the  way  for  numer- 
ous forests  and  meadows,  for  countless  orchards 
and  peaceful,  productive  valleys. 

The  Moraine  colonists  gathered  an  unusually 
large  harvest  during  the  autumn  of  1909.  Seven 
hundred  and  thirty-two  sapling  aspens  and 

41 


of 


several  hundred  willows  were  massed  in  the 
main  pond  by  the  largest  house.  This  pile, 
which  was  mostly  below  the  water-line,  was 
three  feet  deep  and  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
four  feet  in  circumference.  Would  a  new  house 
be  built  this  fall?  This  unusually  large  harvest 
plainly  told  that  either  children  or  immigrants 
had  increased  the  population  of  the  colony.  Of 
course,  a  hard  winter  may  also  have  been  ex- 
pected. 

No;  they  were  not  to  build  a  new  house,  but 
the  old  house  by  the  harvest  pile  was  to  be 
enlarged.  One  day,  just  as  the  evening  shadow 
of  Long's  Peak  had  covered  the  pond,  I  peeped 
over  a  log  on  top  of  the  dam  to  watch  the  work. 
The  house  was  only  forty  feet  distant.  Not  a 
ripple  stirred  among  the  inverted  peaks  and 
pines  in  the  clear,  shadow-enameled  pond.  A 
lone  beaver  rose  quietly  in  the  scene  from  the 
water  near  the  house.  Swimming  noiselessly, 
he  made  a  circuit  of  the  pond.  Then  for  a  time, 
and  without  any  apparent  purpose,  he  swam 
back  and  forth  over  a  short,  straight  course  ;  he 
moved  leisurely,  and  occasionally  made  a  shal- 

42 


low,  quiet  dive.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  watch- 
ing anything  in  particular  or  to  have  anything 
special  on  his  mind.  Yet  his  eyes  may  have  been 
scouting  for  enemies  and  his  mind  may  have 
been  full  of  house  plans.  Finally  he  dived  deeply, 
and  the  next  I  saw  of  him  he  was  climbing  up 
the  side  of  the  house  addition  with  a  pawful  of 
mud. 

By  this  time  a  number  of  beavers  were  swim- 
ming in  the  pond  after  the  manner  of  the  first 
one.  Presently  all  began  to  work.  The  addition 
already  stood  more  than  two  feet  above  the 
water-line.  The  top  of  this  was  crescent-shaped 
and  was  about  seven  feet  long  and  half  as  wide. 
It  was  made  mostly  of  mud,  which  was  plenti- 
fully reinforced  with  willow  cuttings  and  aspen 
sticks.  For  a  time  all  the  workers  busied  them- 
selves in  carrying  mud  and  roots  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  pond  and  placing  these  on  the  slowly 
rising  addition.  Eleven  were  working  at  one 
time.  By  and  by  three  swam  ashore,  each  in  a 
different  direction  and  each  a  few  seconds  apart. 
After  a  minute  or  two  they  returned  from  the 
shore,  each  carrying  or  trailing  a  long  willow. 

43 


of 


These  were  dragged  to  the  top  of  the  addition, 
laid  down,  and  trampled  in  the  mud.  Meantime 
the  mud-carriers  kept  steadily  at  their  work; 
again  willows  were  brought,  but  this  time  four 
beavers  went,  and,  as  before,  each  was  inde- 
pendent of  the  others.  I  did  not  see  how  this 
work  could  go  on  without  some  one  bossing  the 
thing,  but  I  failed  to  detect  any  beaver  acting 
as  overseer.  While  there  was  general  coopera- 
tion, each  acted  independently  most  of  the  time 
and  sometimes  was  apparently  oblivious  of  the 
others.  These  beavers  simply  worked,  —  slowly, 
silently,  and  steadily;  and  they  were  still  work- 
ing away  methodically  and  with  dignified  delib- 
eration when  darkness  hid  them. 
-  Most  beaver  houses  are  conical  and  round  of 
outline.  This  house  originally  was  slightly  ellip- 
tical and  measured  forty-  one  feet  in  circumfer- 
ence. After  enlargement  it  was  almost  a  flattened 
ellipse  and  measured  sixty-three  feet  in  circum- 
ference. Generally  I  have  found  that  small 
beaver  houses  are  round  and  large  ones  elliptical. 
One  of  the  last  large  interesting  works  of  the 
Moraine  Colony  was  the  making  of  a  new  pond. 

44 


This  was  made  alongside  the  main  pond  and 
about  fifty  feet  distant  from  it.  A  low  ridge 
separated  the  two.  As  it  was  nearly  one  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  stream,  a  ditch  or  canal  was 
dug  from  the  stream,  below  the  main  pond,  to 
fill  it.  The  new  pond  was  made  for  the  purpose 
of  reaching  with  a  waterway  an  aspen  grove  on 
its  farther  shore. 

The  making  of  the  dam  showed  more  fore- 
thought than  the  getting  of  the  water  into  the 
pond.  With  the  exception  of  aspen,  no  dam- 
making  material  such  as  beavers  commonly  use 
was  to  be  found.  The  population  of  the  colony 
was  now  large,  while  aspen,  the  chief  food-sup- 
ply, was  becoming  scarce.  Would  the  beavers 
see  far  enough  ahead  to  realize  this?  Evidently 
they  did ;  at  any  rate  not  a  single  precious  aspen 
was  used  in  making  the  dam.  Close  to  the  dam- 
site  was  a  supply  of  young  lodge-pole  pines;  but 
it  is  against  the  tradition  of  the  beaver  to  cut 
green  pines  or  spruces.  Two  of  these  lodge-poles 
were  cut,  but  evidently  these  pitchy,  smelly 
things  were  not  to  the  beavers'  taste  and  no 
more  of  them  were  used. 

45 


of 


Not  far  away  were  scores  of  fire-killed  trees, 
both  standing  and  fallen.  "Surely,"  I  said  to 
myself,  when  two  dead  chunks  had  been  dragged 
into  place,  "they  are  not  going  to  use  this  dead 
timber?  "  A  beaver  avoids  gnawing  dead  wood  ; 
it  is  slow  work,  and  besides  is  very  hard  on  the 
teeth.  Most  of  these  dead  trees  were  incon- 
veniently large,  and  were  fire-hardened  and  full 
of  sand-filled  weather-cracks;  but  contrary  to 
all  my  years  of  observation,  they,  after  long, 
hard  labor,  built  an  excellent  dam  from  this 
material. 

I  have  determined  to  do  all  I  can  to  perpetu- 
ate the  beaver,  and  I  wish  I  could  interest  every 
man,  woman,  boy,  and  girl  in  the  land  to  help 
in  this.  Beaver  works  are  so  picturesque  and  so 
useful  to  man  that  I  trust  this  persistent  prac- 
ticer  of  conservation  will  not  perish  from  the 
hills  and  mountains  of  our  land.  His  growing 
scarcity  is  awakening  some  interest  in  him,  and 
I  hope  and  half  believe  that  before  many  years 
every  brook  that  is  born  on  a  great  watershed 
will,  as  it  goes  swiftly,  merrily  singing  down  the 

46 


slopes  toward  the  sea,  pass  through  and  be 
steadied  in  a  poetic  pond  that  is  made  and  will 
be  maintained  by  our  patient,  persistent,  faithful 
friend  the  beaver. 


ONE  autumn  I  watched  a  beaver  colony  and 
observed  the  customs  of  its  primitive  in- 
habitants as  they  gathered  their  harvest  for 
winter.  It  was  the  Spruce  Tree  Colony,  the 
most  attractive  one  of  the  sixteen  beaver  muni- 
cipalities on  the  big  moraine  on  the  slope  of 
Long's  Peak. 

The  first  evening  I  concealed  myself  close  to 
the  beaver  house  by  the  edge  of  the  pond.  Just 
at  sunset  a  large,  aged  beaver  of  striking,  patri- 
archal appearance,  rose  in  the  water  by  the 
house  and  swam  slowly,  silently  round  the  pond. 
He  kept  close  to  the  shore  and  appeared  to  be 
scouting  to  see  if  an  enemy  lurked  near.  On 
completing  the  circuit  of  the  pond,  he  climbed 
upon  the  end  of  a  log  that  was  thrust  a  few  feet 
out  into  the  water.  Presently  several  other 
beaver  appeared  in  the  water  close  to  the  house. 
A  few  of  these  at  once  left  the  pond  and  nosed 
quietly  about  on  the  shore.  The  others  swam 


of 

about  for  some  minutes  and  then  joined  their 
comrades  on  land,  where  all  rested  for  a  time. 

Meanwhile  the  aged  beaver  had  lifted  a  small 
aspen  limb  out  of  the  water  and  was  squatted 
on  the  log,  leisurely  eating  bark.  Before  many 
minutes  elapsed  the  other  beaver  became  rest- 
less and  finally  started  up  the  slope  in  a  runway. 
They  traveled  slowly  in  single  file  and  one  by  one 
vanished  amid  the  tall  sedge.  The  old  beaver 
slipped  noiselessly  into  the  water,  and  a  series  of 
low  waves  pointed  toward  the  house.  It  was 
dark  as  I  stole  away  in  silence  for  the  night,  and 
Mars  was  gently  throbbing  in  the  black  water. 
.  This  was  an  old  beaver  settlement,  and  the 
numerous  harvests  gathered  by  its  inhabitants 
had  long  since  exhausted  the  near-by  growths 
of  aspen,  the  bark  of  which  is  the  favorite  food 
of  North  American  beaver,  though  the  bark  of 
willow,  cottonwood,  alder,  and  birch  is  also 
eaten.  An.  examination  of  the  aspen  supply, 
together  with  the  lines  of  transportation,  —  the 
runways,  canals,  and  ponds, — indicated  that 
this  year's  harvest  would  have  to  be  brought  a 
long  distance.  The  place  it  would  come  from  was 

52 


an  aspen  grove  far  up  the  slope,  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  distant  from  the  main  house,  and 
perhaps  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  above  it. 
In  this  grove  I  cut  three  notches  in  the  trunks 
of  several  trees  to  enable  me  to  identify  them 
whether  in  the  garnered  pile  by  a  house  or 
along  the  line  of  transportation  to  it. 

-The  grounds  of  this  colony  occupied  several 
acres  on  a  terraced,  moderately  steep  slope  of  a 
mountain  moraine.  Along  one  side  rushed  a 
swift  stream  on  which  the  colonists  maintained 
three  but  little  used  ponds.  On  the  opposite 
side  were  the  slope  and  summit  of  the  moraine. 
There  was  a  large  pond  at  the  bottom,  and  one 
or  two  small  ponds,  or  water-filled  basins,  dotted 
each  of  the  five  terraces  which  rose  above.  The 
entire  grounds  were  perforated  with  subter- 
ranean passageways  or  tunnels. 

Beaver  commonly  fill  their  ponds  by  dam- 
ming a  brook  or  a  river.  But  this  colony  ob- 
tained most  of  its  water-supply  from  springs 
poured  forth  abundantly  on  the  uppermost  ter- 
race, where  the  water  was  led  into  one  pond  and 
a  number  of  basins.  Overflowing  from  these,  it 

53 


either  made  a  merry,  tiny  cascade  or  went  to 
lubricate  a  slide  on  the  short  slopes  which  led 
to  the  ponds  on  the  terrace  below.  The  waters 
from  all  terraces  were  gathered  into  a  large 
pond  at  the  bottom.  This  pond  measured  six 
hundred  feet  in  circumference.  The  crooked 
and  almost  encircling  grass-grown  dam  was  six 
feet  high,  and  four  hundred  feet  long.  In  its 
upper  edge  stood  the  main  house,  which  was 
eighty  feet  high  and  forty  feet  in  circumference. 
There  was  also  another  house  on  one  of  the 
terraces. 

After  notching  the  aspens  I  spent  some  time 
exploring  the  colony  grounds  and  did  not  return 
to  the  marked  trees  until  forty-eight  hours  had 
elapsed.  Harvest  had  begun,  and  one  of  the 
largest  notched  trees  had  been  felled  and  re- 
moved. Its  gnawed  stump  was  six  inches  in 
diameter  and  stood  fifteen  inches  high.  The 
limbs  had  been  trimmed  off,  and  a  number  of 
these  lay  scattered  about  the  stump.  The 
trunk,  which  must  have  been  about  eighteen 
feet  long,  had  disappeared,  cut  into  lengths  of 
from  three  to  six  feet,  probably,  and  started 

54 


toward  the  harvest  pile.  Wondering*  for  which 
house  these  logs  were  intended,  I  followed,  hop- 
ing to  trace  and  trail  them  to  the  house,  or  find 
them  en  route.  From  the  spot  where  they  were 
cut,  they  had  evidently  been  rolled  down  a 
steep,  grassy  seventy-foot  slope,  at  the  bottom 
of  this  dragged  an  equal  distance  over  a  level 
stretch  among  some  lodge-pole  pines,  and  then 
pushed  or  dragged  along  a  narrow  runway  that 
had  been  cut  through  a  rank  growth  of  willows. 
Once  through  the  willows,  they  were  pushed 
into  the  uppermost  pond.  They  were  taken 
across  this,  forced  over  the  dam  on  the  opposite 
side,  and  shot  down  a  slide  into  the  pond  which 
contained  the  smaller  house.  Only  forty-eight 
hours  before,  the  little  logs  which  I  was  follow- 
ing were  in  a  tree,  and  now  I  expected  to  find 
them  by  this  house.  It  was  good  work  to  have 
got  them  here  so  quickly,  I  thought.  But  no  logs 
could  be  found  by  the  house  or  in  the  pond !  The 
folks  at  this  place  had  not  yet  laid  up  anything 
for  winter.  The  logs  must  have  gone  farther. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  this  pond  I  found 
where  the  logs  had  been  dragged  across  the 

55 


fkydl  of  ity  Q£oc«ie0 

broad  dam  and  then  heaved  into  a  long,  wet 
slide  which  landed  them  in  a  small,  shallow 
harbor  in  the  grass.  From  this  point  a  canal 
about  eighty  feet  long  ran  around  the  brow  of 
the  terrace  and  ended  at  the  top  of  a  long  slide 
which  reached  to  the  big  pond.  This  canal  was 
new  and  probably  had  been  dug  especially  for 
this  harvest.  For  sixty  feet  of  its  length  it  was 
quite  regular  in  form  and  had  an  average  width 
of  thirty  inches  and  a  depth  of  fourteen.  The 
mud  dug  in  making  it  was  piled  evenly  along 
the  lower  side.  Altogether  it  looked  more  like 
the  work  of  a  careful  man  with  a  shovel  than 
of  beaver  without  tools.  Seepage  and  overflow 
water  from  the  ponds  above  filled  and  flowed 
slowly  through  it  and  out  at  the  farther  end, 
where  it  swept  down  the  long  slide  into  the  big 
pond.  Through  this  canal  the  logs  had  been 
taken  one  by  one.  At  the  farther  end  I  found 
the  butt-end  log.  It  probably  had  been  too 
heavy  to  heave  out  of  the  canal,  but  tracks  in 
the  mud  indicated  that  there  was  a  hard  tussle 
before  it  was  abandoned. 

The  pile  of  winter  supplies  was  started.  Close 
56 


A    BEAVER   CANAL 
Length  334  feet,  average  depth  1 5  inches,  average  width  26  inches 


to  the  big  house  a  few  aspen  leaves  fluttered 
on  twigs  in  the  water;  evidently  these  twigs 
were  attached  to  limbs  or  larger  pieces  of  aspen 
that  were  piled  beneath  the  surface.  Could  it  be 
that  the  aspen  which  I  had  marked  on  the 
mountainside  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  so 
short  a  time  before,  and  which  I  had  followed 
over  slope  and  slide,  canal  and  basin,  was  now 
piled  on  the  bottom  of  this  pond?  I  waded  out 
into  the  water,  prodded  about  with  a  pole,  and 
found  several  smaller  logs.  Dragging  one  of 
these  to  the  surface,  I  found  there  were  three 
notches  on  it. 

Evidently  these  heavy  green  tree  cuttings 
had  been  sunk  to  the  bottom  simply  by  the 
piling  of  other  similar  cuttings  upon  them. 
With  this  heavy  material  in  the  still  water  a 
slight  contact  with  the  bottom  would  prevent 
the  drifting  of  accumulating  cuttings  until  a 
heavy  pile  could  be  formed.  However,  in  deep 
or  swift  water  I  have  noticed  that  an  anchorage 
for  the  first  few  pieces  was  secured  by  placing 
these  upon  the  lower  slope  of  the  house  or 
against  the  dam. 

57 


e  $pdt  of 

Scores  of  aspens  were  felled  in  the  grove 
where  the  notched  ones  were.  They  were 
trimmed,  cut  into  sections,  and  limbs,  logs,  and 
all  taken  over  the  route  of  the  one  I  had  fol- 
lowed, and  at  last  placed  in  a  pile  beside  the  big 
house.  This  harvest  gathering  went  on  for  a 
month.  All  about  was  busy,  earnest  prepara- 
tion for  winter.  The  squirrels  from  the  tree- tops 
kept  a  rattling  rain  of  cones  on  the  leaf-strewn 
forest  floor,  the  cheery  chipmunk  foraged  and 
frolicked  among  the  withered  leaves  and  plants, 
while  aspens  with  leaves  of  gold  fell  before  the 
ivory  sickles  of  the  beaver.  Splendid  glimpses, 
grand  views,  I  had  of  this  strange  harvest-home. 
How  busy  the  beavers  were!  They  were  busy 
in  the  grove  on  the  steep  mountainside;  they 
tugged  logs  along  the  runways;  they  hurried 
them  across  the  water-basins,  wrestled  with 
them  in  canals,  and  merrily  piled  them  by  the 
rude  house  in  the  water.  And  I  watched  them 
through  the  changing  hours;  I  saw  their  shad- 
owy activity  in  the  starry,  silent  night;  I  saw 
them  hopefully  leave  home  for  the  harvest 
groves  in  the  serene  twilight,  and  I  watched 

58 


them  working  busily  in  the  light  of  the  noonday 
sun. 

Most  of  the  aspens  were  cut  off  between 
thirteen  and  fifteen  inches  above  the  ground. 
A  few  stumps  were  less  than  five  inches  high, 
while  a  number  were  four  feet  high.  These  high 
cuttings  were  probably  made  from  reclining 
trunks  of  lodged  aspens  which  were  afterward 
removed.  The  average  diameter  of  the  aspens 
cut  was  four  and  one  half  inches-  at  the  top 
of  the  stump.  Numerous  seedlings  of  an  inch 
diameter  were  cut,  and  the  largest  tree  felled 
for  this  harvest  measured  fourteen  inches  across 
the  stump.  This  had  been  laid  low  only  a  few 
hours  before  I  found  it,  and  a  bushel  of  white 
chips  and  cuttings  encircled  the  lifeless  stump 
like  a  wreath.  In  falling,  the  top  had  become 
entangled  in  an  alder  thicket  and  lodged  six 
feet  from  the  ground.  It  remained  in  this  posi- 
tion for  several  days  and  was  apparently  aban- 
doned; but  the  last  time  I  went  to  see  it  the 
alders  which  upheld  it  were  being  cut  away. 
Although  the  alders  were  thick  upon  the  ground, 
only  those  which  had  upheld  the  aspen  had 

59 


of 


been  cut.  It  may  be  that  the  beaver  which 
felled  them  looked  and  thought  before  they 
went  ahead  with  the  cutting. 

Why  had  this  and  several  other  large  aspens 
been  left  uncut  in  a  place  where  all  were  con- 
venient for  harvest?  All  other  neighboring 
aspens  were  cut  years  ago.  One  explanation  is 
that  the  beaver  realized  that  the  tops  of  the 
aspens  were  entangled  and  interlocked  in  the 
limbs  of  crowding  spruces  and  would  not  fall  if 
cut  off  at  the  bottom.  This  and  one  other  were 
the  only  large  ones  that  were  felled,  and  the 
tops  of  these  had  been  recently  released  by  the 
overturning  of  some  spruces  and  the  breaking  of 
several  branches  on  others.  Other  scattered 
large  aspens  were  left  uncut,  but  all  of  these 
were  clasped  in  the  arms  of  near-by  spruces. 

It  was  the  habit  of  these  colonists  to  transfer 
a  tree  to  the  harvest  pile  promptly  after  cutting 
it  down.  But  one  morning  I  found  logs  on  slides 
and  in  canals,  and  unfinished  work  in  the  grove, 
as  though  everything  had  been  suddenly  dropped 
in  the  night  when  work  was  at  its  height.  Coy- 
otes had  howled  freely  during  the  night,  but 

60 


this  was  not  uncommon.  In  going  over  the 
grounds  I  found  the  explanation  of  this  untidy 
work  in  a  bear  track  and  numerous  wolf  tracks, 
freshly  moulded  in  the  muddy  places. 

After  the  bulk  of  the  harvest  was  gathered,  I 
went  one  day  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  moraine 
and  briefly  observed  the  methods  of  the  Island 
beaver  colony.  The  ways  of  the  two  colonies 
were  in  some  things  very  different.  In  the 
Spruce  Tree  Colony  the  custom  was  to  move  the 
felled  aspen  promptly  to  the  harvest  pile.  In 
the  Island  Colony  the  custom  was  to  cut  down 
most  of  the  harvest  before  transporting  any  of 
it  to  the  pile  beside  the  house.  Of  the  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty-two  trees  that  had  been  felled 
for  this  harvest,  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
were  still  lying  where  they  fell.  However,  the 
work  of  transporting  was  getting  under  way;  a 
few  logs  were  in  the  pile  beside  the  house,  and 
numerous  others  were  scattered  along  the  ca- 
nals, runways,  and  slides  between  the  house  and 
the  harvest  grove. 

There  was  more  wasted  labor,  too,  in  the 
Island  Colony.  This  was  noticeable  in  the  at- 

61 


of  f  0e  (£oc8t<!6 

tempts  that  had  been  made  to  fell  limb-en- 
tangled trees  that  could  not  fall.  One  five-inch 
aspen  had  three  times  been  cut  off  at  the  bot- 
tom. The  third  cut  was  more  than  three  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  was  made  by  a  beaver 
working  from  the  top  of  a  fallen  log.  Still  this 
high-cut  aspen  refused  to  come  down  and  there 
it  hung  like  a  collapsed  balloon  entangled  in  tree- 
tops. 

Before  the  white  man  came  it  is  probable 
that  beaver  did  most  of  their  work  in  the  day- 
time. But  at  present,  except  in  the  most  re- 
mote localities,  day  work  is  perilous.  Prowling 
hunters  have  compelled  most  beaver  to  work 
at  night.  The  Spruce  Tree  Colony  was  an  iso- 
lated one,  and  occasionally  its  members  worked 
and  even  played  in  the  sunshine.  Each  day  I 
secluded  myself,  kept  still,  and  waited;  and  on  a 
few  occasions  watched  them  as  they  worked  in 
the  light. 

One  windy  day,  just  as  I  was  unroping  my- 
self from  the  shaking  limb  of  a  spruce,  four 
beaver  were  plodding  along  in  single  file  be- 
neath. They  had  come  out  of  a  hole  between 

62 


the  roots  of  the  spruce.  At  an  aspen  growth 
about  fifty  feet  distant  they  separated.  Though 
they  had  been  closely  assembled,  each  appeared 
utterly  oblivious  of  the  presence  of  the  others. 
One  squatted  on  the  ground  by  an  aspen,  took 
a  bite  of  bark  out  of  it  and  ate  leisurely.  By 
and  by  he  rose,  clasped  the  aspen  with  fore 
paws  and  began  to  bite  chips  from  it  systemati- 
cally. He  was  deliberately  cutting  it  down.  The 
most  aged  beaver  waddled  near  an  aspen,  gazed 
into  its  top  for  a  few  seconds,  then  moved  away 
about  ten  feet  and  started  to  fell  a  five-inch 
aspen.  The  one  rejected  was  entangled  at  the 
top.  Presently  the  third  beaver  selected  a  tree, 
and  after  some  trouble  to  get  comfortably 
seated,  or  squatted,  also  began  cutting.  The 
fourth  beaver  disappeared  and  I  did  not  see 
him  again.  While  I  was  looking  for  this  one  the 
huge,  aged  beaver  whose  venerable  appearance 
had  impressed  me  the  first  evening  appeared  on 
the  scene.  He  came  out  of  a  hole  beneath  some 
spruces  about  a  hundred  feet  distant.  He  looked 
neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  nor  up  nor  down, 
as  he  ambled  toward  the  aspen  growth.  When 

63 


of  $* 


about  halfway  there  he  wheeled  suddenly  and 
took  an  uneasy  survey  of  the  open  he  had  tra- 
versed, as  though  he  had  heard  an  enemy  be- 
hind. Then  with  apparently  stolid  indifference 
he  went  on  leisurely,  and  for  a  time  paused 
among  the  cutters,  which  did  nothing  to  indi- 
cate that  they  realized  his  presence.  He  ate 
some  bark  from?  a  green  limb  on  the  ground, 
moved  on,  and  went  into  the  hole  beneath  me. 
He  appeared  so  large  that  I  afterward  measured 
the  distance  between  the  two  aspens  where  he 
paused.  He  was  not  less  than  three  and  a  half 
feet  long  and  probably  weighed  fifty  pounds. 
He  had  all  his  toes;  there  was  no  white  spot  on 
his  body;  in  fact,  there  was  neither  mark  nor 
blemish  by  which  I  could  positively  identify 
him.  Yet  I  feel  that  in  my  month  around  the 
colony  I  beheld  the  patriarch  of  the  first  even- 
ing in  several  scenes  of  action. 

Sixty-seven  minutes  after  the  second  beaver 
began  cutting  he  made  a  brief  pause;  then  he 
suddenly  thudded  the  ground  with  his  tail, 
hurriedly  took  out  a  few  more  chips,  and  ran 
away,  with  the  other  two  beaver  a  little  in 

64 


advance,  just  as  his  four-inch  aspen  settled  over 
and  then  fell.  All  paused  for  a  time  close  to  the 
hole  beneath  me,  and  then  the  old  beaver  re- 
turned to  his  work.  The  one  that  had  felled  his 
tree  followed  closely  and  at  once  began  on  an- 
other aspen.  The  other  beaver,  with  his  aspen 
half  cut  off,  went  into  the  hole  and  did  not  again 
come  out.  By  and  by  an  old  and  a  young  beaver 
came  out  of  the  hole.  The  young  one  at  once 
began  cutting  limbs  off  the  recently  felled 
aspen,  while  the  other  began  work  on  the  half- 
cut  tree ;  but  he  ignored  the  work  already  done, 
and  finally  severed  the  trunk  about  four  inches 
above  the  cut  made  by  the  other.  Suddenly 
the  old  beaver  whacked  the  ground  and  ran, 
but  at  thirty  feet  distant  he  paused  and  nerv- 
ously thumped  the  ground  with  his  tail,  as  his 
aspen  slowly  settled  and  fell.  Then  he  went 
into  the  hole  beneath  me. 

This  year's  harvest  was  so  much  larger  than 
usual  that  it  may  be  the  population  of  this  col- 
ony had  been  increased  by  the  arrival  of  emi- 
grants from  a  persecuted  colony  down  in  the 
valley.  The  total  harvest  numbered  four  hun- 

65 


of 


dred  and  forty-three  trees.  These  made  a  har- 
vest pile  four  feet  high  and  ninety  feet  in  cir- 
cumference. A  thick  covering  of  willows  was 
placed  on  top  of  the  harvest  pile,  —  I  cannot 
tell  for  what  reason  unless  it  was  to  sink  all  the 
aspen  below  reach  of  the  ice.  This  bulk  of  stores 
together  with  numerous  roots  of  willow  and 
water  plants,  which  in  the  water  are  eaten  from 
the  bottom  of  the  pond,  would  support  a  num- 
erous beaver  population  through  the  days  of 
ice  and  snow. 

On  the  last  tour  through  the  colony  every- 
thing was  ready  for  the  long  and  cold  winter. 
Dams  were  in  repair  and  ponds  were  brimming 
over  with  water,  the  fresh  coats  of  mud  on  the 
houses  were  freezing  to  defy  enemies,  and  a 
bountiful  harvest  was  home.  Harvest-gathering 
is  full  of  hope  and  romance.  What  a  joy  it  must 
be  to  every  man  or  animal  who  has  a  hand  in  it! 
What  a  satisfaction,  too,  for  all  dependent  upon 
a  harvest,  to  know  that  there  is  abundance 
stored  for  all  the  frosty  days! 

The  people  of  this  wild,  strange,  picturesque 
colony  had  planned  and  prepared  well.  I  wished 

66 


them  a  winter  tmvisited  by  cruel  fate  or  foe,  and 
trusted  that  when  June  came  again  the  fat  and 
furry  young  beaver  would  play  with  the  aged 
one  amid  the  tiger  lilies  in  the  shadows  of  the 
big  spruce  trees. 


QUounfofa 


E  narrow  Alpine  zone  of  peaks  and  snow 
that  forms  the  crest  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains has  its  own  individual  elemental  moods, 
its  characteristic  winds,  its  electrical  and  other 
peculiarities,  and  a  climate  of  its  own.  Com- 
monly its  days  are  serene  and  sunny,  but  from 
time  to  time  it  has  hail  and  snow  and  showers 
of  wind-blown  rain,  cold  as  ice-water.  It  is 
subject  to  violent  changes  from  clear,  calm  air 
to  blizzard. 

I  have  enjoyed  these  strange,  silent  heights 
in  every  season  of  the  year.  In  climbing  scores 
of  these  peaks,  in  crossing  the  passes,  often  on 
snowshoes,  and  in  camping  here  and  there  on 
the  skyline,  I  have  encountered  these  climatic 
changes  and  had  numerous  strange  experiences. 
From  these  experiences  I  realize  that  the  trans- 
continental aviator,  with  this  realm  of  peak  and 
sky,  will  have  some  delightful  as  well  as  serious 
surprises.  He  will  encounter  stern  conditions. 


of 


He  may,  like  a  storm-defying  bird,  be  carried 
from  his  course  by  treacherous  currents  and 
battle  with  breakers  or  struggle  in  vain  in  the 
monstrous,  invisible  maelstroms  that  beset  this 
ocean  of  air.  Of  these  skyline  factors  the  more 
imposing  are  wind,  cold,  clouds,  rain,  snow,  and 
subtle,  capricious  electricity. 

High  winds  are  common  across  the  summits 
of  these  mountains  ;  and  they  are  most  prevalent 
in  winter.  Those  of  summer,  though  less  fre- 
quent and  much  more  short-lived,  are  a  menace 
on  account  of  their  fury  and  the  suddenness  with 
which  they  surprise  and  sweep  the  heights. 

Early  one  summer,  while  exploring  a  wide 
alpine  moorland  above  the  timber-line,  I  —  and 
some  others  —  had  an  experience  with  one  of 
those  sudden  stormbursts.  The  region  was 
utterly  wild,  but  up  to  it  straggling  tourists 
occasionally  rode  for  a  view  of  the  surrounding 
mountain  world.  All  alone,  I  was  studying  the 
ways  of  the  wild  inhabitants  of  the  heights.  I 
had  spent  the  calm,  sunny  morning  in  watching 
a  solitary  bighorn  that  was  feeding  among  some 
boulders.  He  was  aged,  and  he  ate  as  though  his 

72 


teeth  were  poor  and  walked  as  though  afflicted 
with  rheumatism.  Suddenly  this  patriarch  for- 
got his  age  and  fled  precipitately,  with  almost 
the  speed  of  frightened  youth.  I  leaped  upon  a 
boulder  to  watch  him,  but  was  instantly  knocked 
headlong  by  a  wild  blast  of  wind.  In  falling  I 
caught  sight  of  a  straw  hat  and  a  wrecked  um- 
brella falling  out  of  the  sky.  Rising  amid  the 
pelting  gale  of  flung  hail,  ice-water,  and  snow, 
I  pushed  my  way  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm,  hop- 
ing for  shelter  in  the  lee  of  a  rock-pile  about  a 
hundred  yards  distant.  A  lady's  disheveled  hat 
blew  by  me,  and  with  the  howl  of  the  wind 
came,  almost  drowned,  excited  human  utter- 
ances. Nearing  the  rock-pile,  I  caught  a  vague 
view  of  a  merry-go-round  of  man  and  horse, 
then  a  glimpse  of  the  last  gyration,  in  which  an 
elderly  Eastern  gentleman  parted  company  with 
a  stampeded  bronco. 

Five  tourists  had  ridden  up  in  the  sunshine 
to  enjoy  the  heights,  and  the  suddenness  and 
fierceness  of  the  storm  had  thrown  them  into  a 
panic  and  stampeded  their  horses.  They  were 
drenched  and  severely  chilled,  and  they  were 

73 


of 


frightened.  I  made  haste  to  tell  them  that  the 
storm  would  be  brief.  While  I  was  still  trying  to 
reassure  them,  the  clouds  commenced  to  dis- 
solve and  the  sun  came  out.  Presently  all  were 
watching  the  majestic  soaring  of  two  eagles  up 
in  the  blue,  while  I  went  off  to  collect  five  scat- 
tered saddle-ponies  that  were  contentedly  feed- 
ing far  away  on  the  moor. 

Though  the  winter  winds  are  of  slower  devel- 
opment, they  are  more  prolonged  and  are  tem- 
pestuously powerful.  Occasionally  these  winds 
blow  for  days;  and  where  they  follow  a  fall  of 
snow  they  blow  and  whirl  this  about  so  wildly 
that  the  air  is  befogged  for  several  hundred  feet 
above  the  earth.  So  violently  and  thickly  is 
the  powdered  snow  flung  about  that  a  few  min- 
utes at  a  time  is  the  longest  that  one  can  see  or 
breathe  in  it.  These  high  winter  winds  come 
out  of  the  west  in  a  deep,  broad  stratum  that 
is  far  above  most  of  the  surface  over  which  they 
blow.  Commonly  a  high  wind  strikes  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  Continental  Divide  a  little  be- 
low the  altitude  of  eleven  thousand  feet.  This 
striking  throws  it  into  fierce  confusion.  It  rolls 

74 


whirling  up  the  steeps  and  frequently  shoots 
far  above  the  highest  peaks.  Across  the  passes 
it  sweeps,  roars  down  the  canons  on  the  eastern 
slope,  and  rushes  out  across  the  plains.  Though 
the  western  slope  below  eleven  thousand  feet 
is  a  calm  zone,  the  entire  eastern  slope  is  being 
whipped  and  scourged  by  a  flood  of  wind. 
Occasionally  the  temperature  of  these  winds  is 
warm. 

These  swift,  insistent  winds,  torn,  inter- 
cepted, and  deflected  by  dashing  against  the 
broken  skyline,  produce  currents,  counter-cur- 
rents, sleepy  eddies,  violent  vertical  whirls, 
and  milling  maelstroms  that  are  tilted  at  every 
angle.  In  places  there  is  a  gale  blowing  upward, 
and  here  and  there  the  air  pours  heavily  down 
in  an  invisible  but  almost  crushing  air-fall. 

One  winter  I  placed  an  air-meter  in  Granite 
Pass,  at  twelve  thousand  feet  altitude  on  the 
slope  of  Long's  Peak.  During  the  first  high  wind 
I  fought  my  way  up  to  read  what  the  meter 
said.  Both  the  meter  and  myself  found  the 
wind  exceeded  the  speed  limit.  Emerging  above 
the  trees  at  timber-line,  I  had  to  face  the  un- 

75 


of 

broken  fury  of  the  gale  as  it  swept  down  the 
slope  from  the  heights  above.  The  region  was 
barren  of  snow.  The  wind  dashed  me  with 
sandblasts  and  pelted  me  with  gravel  volleys 
that  were  almost  unbearable.  My  face  and 
wrists  were  bruised,  and  blood  was  drawn  in 
many  places  where  the  gravel  struck. 

Seeking  rest  and  shelter  from  this  persistent 
punishment,  I  approached  a  crag  and  when  only 
a  few  yards  away  was  struck  and  overturned  by 
the  milling  air-current  around  it.  The  air  was 
so  agitated  around  this  crag  that  its  churnings 
followed  me,  like  disturbed  water,  under  and 
behind  the  large  rock-fragments,  where  shelter 
was  hoped  for  but  only  partly  secured. 

On  the  last  slope  below  the  meter  the  wind 
simply  played  with  me.  I  was  overthrown, 
tripped,  knocked  down,  blown  explosively  off 
my  feet  and  dropped.  Sometimes  the  wind 
dropped  me  heavily,  but  just  as  often  it  eased 
me  down.  I  made  no  attempt  to  stand  erect; 
most  of  the  time  this  was  impossible  and  at  all 
times  it  was  very  dangerous.  Now  and  then  the 
wind  rolled  me  as  I  lay  resting  upon  a  smooth 

76 


QHounfain^op 


place.  Advancing  was  akin  to  swimming  a 
whirlpool  or  to  wrestling  one's  way  up  a  slope 
despite  the  ceaseless  opposition  of  a  vigorous, 
tireless  opponent. 

At  last  I  crawled  and  climbed  up  to  the  buz- 
zing cups  of  the  meter.  So  swiftly  were  they 
rotating  they  formed  a  blurred  circle,  like  a 
fast-revolving  life-preserver.  The  meter  showed 
that  the  wind  was  passing  with  a  speed  of  from 
one  hundred  and  sixty-five  to  one  hundred  and 
seventy  miles  an  hour.  The  meter  blew  up  — 
or,  rather,  flew  to  pieces  —  during  a  swifter 
spurt. 

The  wind  so  loudly  ripped  and  roared  round 
the  top  of  the  peak  that  I  determined  to  scale 
the  summit  and  experience  its  wildest  and 
most  eloquent  efforts.  All  my  strength  and 
climbing  knowledge  were  required  to  prevent 
my  being  literally  blown  out  of  converging 
rock  channels  through  which  the  wind  gushed; 
again  and  again  I  clung  with  all  my  might  to 
avoid  being  torn  from  the  ledges.  Fortunately 
not  a  bruise  was  received,  though  many  times 
this  was  narrowly  avoided. 

77 


of  10* 


The  top  of  the  peak,  an  area  of  between  three 
and  four  acres  and  comparatively  level,  was  in  an 
easy  eddy,  almost  a  calm  when  compared  with 
the  wind's  activities  below  and  near  by.  Ap- 
parently the  wind-current  collided  so  forcefully 
with  the  western  wall  of  the  peak  that  it  was 
thrown  far  above  the  summit  before  recovering 
to  continue  its  way  eastward;  but  against  the 
resisting  spurs  and  pinnacles  a  little  below 
summit-level  the  wind  roared,  boomed,  and 
crashed  in  its  determined,  passionate  onsweep. 

The  better  to  hear  this  grand  uproar,  I  ad- 
vanced to  the  western  edge  of  the  summit.  Here 
my  hat  was  torn  off,  but  not  quite  grasped,  by 
the  upshooting  blast.  It  fell  into  the  swirl  above 
the  summit  and  in  large  circles  floated  upward 
at  slow  speed,  rising  directly  above  the  top  of 
the  peak.  It  rose  and  circled  so  slowly  that  I 
threw  several  stones  at  it,  trying  to  knock  it 
down  before  it  rose  out  of  range.  The  diameter 
of  the  circle  through  which  it  floated  was  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  feet;  when  it  had  risen 
five,  or  perhaps  six,  hundred  feet  above  the 
summit  it  suddenly  tumbled  over  and  over  as 

78 


though  about  to  fall,  but  instead  of  falling  it 
sailed  off  toward  the  east  as  though  a  carrier 
pigeon  hurrying  for  a  known  and  definite  place 
in  the  horizon. 

Some  of  the  gulf-streams,  hell-gates,  whirl- 
pools, rough  channels,  and  dangerous  tides  in 
the  sea  of  air  either  are  in  fixed  places  or 
adjust  themselves  to  winds  from  a  different 
quarter  so  definitely  that  their  location  can  be 
told  by  considering  them  in  connection  with 
the  direction  of  the  wind.  Thus  the  sea  of  air 
may  be  partly  charted  and  the  position  of  some 
of  its  dangerous  places,  even  in  mountain-top 
oceans,  positively  known. 

However,  there  are  dangerous  mountain-top 
winds  of  one  kind,  or,  more  properly,  numerous 
local  air-blasts,  that  are  sometimes  created 
within  these  high  winds,  that  do  not  appear  to 
have  any  habits.  It  would  be  easier  to  tell 
where  the  next  thunderbolt  would  fall  than 
where  the  next  one  of  these  would  explode.  One 
of  these  might  be  called  a  cannon  wind.  An  old 
prospector,  who  had  experienced  countless  high 
winds  among  the  crags,  once  stated  that  high, 

79 


gpdt  of  tfo 


gusty  winds  on  mountain-slopes  "sometimes 
shoot  off  a  cannon."  These  explosive  blasts 
touch  only  a  short,  narrow  space,  but  in  this 
they  are  almost  irresistible. 

Isolated  clouds  often  soften  and  beautify  the 
stern  heights  as  they  silently  float  and  drift 
among  peaks  and  passes.  Flocks  of  these  sky 
birds  frequently  float  about  together.  On  sunny 
days,  in  addition  to  giving  a  charm  to  the  peaks, 
their  restless  shadows  never  tire  of  readjusting 
themselves  and  are  ever  trying  to  find  a  found- 
ation or  a  place  of  rest  upon  the  tempestuous 
topography  of  the  heights  below.  Now  and  then 
a  deep,  dense  cloud-stratum  will  cover  the  crests 
and  envelop  the  summit  slopes  for  days.  These 
vapory  strata  usually  feel  but  little  wind  and 
they  vary  in  thickness  from  a  few  hundred  to  a 
few  thousand  feet.  Sometimes  one  of  these  rests 
so  serenely  that  it  suggests  an  aggregation  of 
clouds  pushed  off  to  one  side  because  temporarily 
the  sky  does  not  need  them  elsewhere  for  either 
decorative  or  precipitative  purposes.  Now  and 
then  they  do  drop  rain  or  snow,  but  most  of 
the  time  they  appear  to  be  in  a  procrastinating 

80 


(ttlounfain^op 


mood  and  unable  to  decide  whether  to  precipi- 
tate or  to  move  on. 

Commonly  the  upper  surfaces  of  cloud-strata 
appear  like  a  peaceful  silver-gray  sea.  They 
appear  woolly  and  sometimes  fluffy,  level,  and 
often  so  vast  that  they  sweep  away  beyond  the 
horizon.  Peaks  and  ridges  often  pierce  their 
interminable  surface  with  romantic  continents 
and  islands;  along  their  romantic  shores,  above 
the  surface  of  the  picturesque  sea,  the  airship 
could  sail  in  safe  poetic  flight,  though  the  foggy 
depths  below  were  too  dense  for  any  traveler 
to  penetrate. 

One  spring  the  snow  fell  continuously  around 
my  cabin  for  three  days.  Reports  told  that  the 
storm  was  general  over  the  Rocky  Mountain 
region.  Later  investigations  showed  that  that 
cloud  and  storm  were  spread  over  a  quarter  of 
a  million  square  miles.  Over  this  entire  area 
there  was  made  a  comparatively  even  deposit 
of  thirty  inches  of  snow. 

All  over  the  area,  the  bottom,  or  under  sur- 
face, of  the  cloud  was  at  an  altitude  of  approxi- 
mately nine  thousand  feet.  My  cabin,  with  an 

81 


of 


altitude  of  nine  thousand,  was  immersed  in 
cloud,  though  at  times  it  was  one  hundred  feet 
or  so  below  it.  Fully  satisfied  of  the  widespread 
and  general  nature  of  the  storm,  and  convinced 
of  the  comparatively  level  line  of  the  bottom 
surface  of  the  cloud,  I  determined  to  measure 
its  vertical  depth  and  observe  its  slow  move- 
ments by  climbing  above  its  silver  lining.  This 
was  the  third  day  of  the  storm.  On  snowshoes 
up  the  mountainside  I  went  through  this  almost 
opaque  sheep's-wool  cloud.  It  was  not  bitterly 
cold,  but  cloud  and  snow  combined  were  blind- 
ing, and  only  a  ravine  and  instinct  enabled  me 
to  make  my  way. 

At  an  altitude  of  about  twelve  thousand  feet 
the  depth  of  the  snow  became  suddenly  less, 
soon  falling  to  only  an  inch  or  so.  Within  a  few 
rods  of  where  it  began  to  grow  shallow  I  burst 
through  the  upper  surface  of  the  cloud.  Around 
me  and  above  there  was  not  a  flake  of  snow. 
Over  the  entire  storm-area  of  a  quarter  of  a 
million  square  miles,  all  heights  above  twelve 
thousand  had  escaped  both  cloud  and  snow. 
The  cloud,  which  thus  lay  between  the  altitudes 

82 


of  nine  thousand  and  twelve  thousand  feet,  was 
three  thousand  feet  deep. 

When  I  rose  above  the  surface  of  this  sea  the 
sun  was  shining  upon  it.  It  was  a  smooth  sea; 
not  a  breath  of  wind  ruffled  it.  The  top  of  Long's 
Peak  rose  bald  and  broken  above.  Climbing  to 
the  top  of  a  commanding  ridge,  I  long  watched 
this  beautiful  expanse  of  cloud  and  could 
scarcely  realize  that  it  was  steadily  flinging 
multitudes  of  snowflakes  upon  slopes  and 
snows  below.  Though  practically  stationary, 
this  cloud  expanse  had  some  slight  movements. 
These  were  somewhat  akin  to  those  of  a  huge 
raft  that  is  becalmed  in  a  quiet  harbor.  Slowly, 
easily,  and  almost  imperceptibly  the  entire  mass 
slid  forward  along  the  mountains ;  it  moved  but 
a  short  distance,  paused  for  some  minutes,  then 
slowly  slid  back  a  trifle  farther  than  it  had  ad- 
vanced. After  a  brief  stop  the  entire  mass,  as 
though  anchored  in  the  centre,  started  to  swing 
in  an  easy,  deliberate  rotation;  after  a  few  de- 
grees of  movement  it  paused,  hesitated,  then 
swung  with  slow,  heavy  movement  back.  In 
addition  to  these  shifting  horizontal  motions 

83 


of 


there  was  a  short  vertical  one.  The  entire  mass 
slowly  sank  and  settled  two  or  three  hundred 
feet,  then,  with  scarcely  a  pause,  rose  easily  to 
the  level  from  which  it  sank.  Only  once  did  it 
rise  above  this  level. 

During  all  seasons  of  the  year  there  are  oft- 
recurring  periods  when  the  mountains  sit  in 
sunshine  and  all  the  winds  are  still.  In  days 
of  this  kind  the  transcontinental  passengers  in 
glass-bottomed  airships  would  have  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  sublime  scenes.  The  purple  forests, 
the  embowered,  peaceful  parks,  the  drifted 
snows,  the  streams  that  fold  and  shine  through 
the  forests,  —  all  these  combine  and  cover  mag- 
nificently the  billowed  and  broken  distances, 
while  ever  floating  up  from  below  are  the  soft, 
ebbing,  and  intermittent  songs  from  white  water 
that  leaps  in  glory. 

Though  the  summits  of  the  Rocky  Mount- 
ains are  always  cool,  it  is  only  in  rare,  brief 
times  that  they  fall  within  the  frigid  spell  of 
Farthest  North  and  become  cruelly  cold.  The 
climate  among  these  mountain-  tops  is  much 
milder  than  people  far  away  imagine. 

84 


The  electrical  effects  that  enliven  and  some- 
times illuminate  these  summits  are  peculiar  and 
often  highly  interesting.  Thunderbolts  —  light- 
ning-strokes —  are  rare,  far  less  frequent  than 
in  most  lowland  districts.  However,  when  light- 
ning does  strike  the  heights,  it  appears  to  have 
many  times  the  force  that  is  displayed  in 
lowland  strokes.  My  conclusions  concerning 
the  infrequency  of  thunderbolts  on  these  sky- 
piercing  peaks  are  drawn  chiefly  from  my  own 
experience.  I  have  stood  through  storms  upon 
more  than  a  score  of  Rocky  Mountain  summits 
that  were  upward  of  fourteen  thousand  feet 
above  the  tides.  Only  one  of  these  peaks  was 
struck;  this  was  Long's  Peak,  which  rises  to  the 
height  of  14,256  feet  above  the  sea. 

Seventy  storms  I  have  experienced  on  the 
summit  of  this  peak,  and  during  these  it  was 
struck  but  three  times  to  my  knowledge.  One 
of  these  strokes  fell  a  thousand  feet  below  the 
top ;  two  struck  the  same  spot  on  the  edge  of  the 
summit.  The  rock  struck  was  granite,  and  the 
effects  of  the  strokes  were  similar;  hundreds  of 
pounds  of  shattered  rock  fragments  were  flung 

85 


of 


horizontally  afar.  Out  of  scores  of  experiences 
in  rain-drenched  passes  I  have  record  of  but  two 
thunderbolts.  Both  of  these  were  heavy.  In  all 
these  instances  the  thunderbolt  descended  at  a 
time  when  the  storm-cloud  was  a  few  hundred 
feet  above  the  place  struck. 

During  the  greater  number  of  high-altitude 
storms  the  cloud  is  in  contact  with  the  surface 
or  but  little  removed  from  it.  Never  have  I 
known  the  lightning  to  strike  when  the  clouds 
were  close  to  the  surface  or  touching  it.  It  is, 
however,  common,  during  times  of  low-drag- 
ging clouds,  for  the  surface  air  to  be  heavily 
charged  with  electrical  fluid.  This  often  is 
accompanied  with  strange  effects.  Prominent 
among  these  is  a  low  pulsating  hum  or  an  inter- 
mittent buz-z-z-z,  with  now  and  then  a  sharp 
zit-zit!  Sometimes  accompanying,  at  other  times 
only  briefly  breaking  in,  are  subdued  camp-fire 
cracklings  and  roarings.  Falling  snowflakes, 
during  these  times,  are  occasionally  briefly 
luminous,  like  fireflies,  the  instant  they  touch 
the  earth.  Hair-pulling  is  the  commonest  effect 
that  people  experience  in  these  sizzling  electrical 

86 


QfHounfain*£op 


storms.  There  is  a  straightening  of  the  hairs 
and  apparently  a  sharp  pull  upon  each.  As  John 
Muir  has  it,  "You  are  sure  to  be  lost  in"  wonder 
and  praise  and  every  hair  of  your  head  will 
stand  up  and  hum  and  sing  like  an  enthusiastic 
congregation."  Most  people  take  very  gravely 
their  first  experience  of  this  kind;  especially 
when  accompanied,  as  it  often  is,  with  apparent 
near-by  bee-buzzings  and  a  purplish  roll  or  halo 
around  the  head.  During  these  times  a  sudden 
finger  movement  will  produce  a  crackling  snap 
or  spark. 

On  rare  occasions  these  interesting  peculiari- 
ties become  irritating  and  sometimes  serious  to 
one.  In  "  A  Watcher  on  the  Heights,"  in  "Wild 
Life  on  the  Rockies,"  I  have  described  a  case  of 
this  kind.  A  few  people  suffer  from  a  muscular 
cramp  or  spasm,  and  occasionally  the  muscles 
are  so  tensed  that  breathing  becomes  difficult 
and  heart-action  disturbed.  I  have  never 
known  an  electrical  storm  to  be  fatal.  Relief 
from  the  effects  of  such  a  storm  may  generally 
be  had  by  lying  between  big  stones  or  beneath 
shelving  rocks.  On  one  occasion  I  saw  two 

87 


of 


ladies  and  four  gentlemen  lay  dignity  aside  and 
obtain  relief  by  jamming  into  a  place  barely 
large  enough  for  two.  In  my  own  case,  activity 
invariably  intensified  these  effects;  and  the 
touching  of  steel  or  iron  often  had  the  same 
results.  For  some  years  a  family  resided  upon 
the  slope  of  Mt.  Teller,  at  an  altitude  of  twelve 
thousand  feet.  Commonly  during  storms  the 
stove  and  pipe  were  charged  with  fluid  so  heav- 
ily that  it  was  a  case  of  hands  off  and  let  din- 
ner wait,  and  sometimes  spoil,  until  the  heavens 
shut  off  the  current. 

The  sustaining  buoyancy  of  the  air  to  aerial 
things  decreases  with  altitude.  In  this  "light" 
air  some  motor  machinery  is  less  efficient  than 
it  is  in  the  lowlands.  It  is  probable  that  avia- 
tors will  always  find  the  air  around  uplifted 
peaks  much  less  serviceable  than  this  element 
upon  the  surface  of  the  sea.  But  known  and 
unknown  dangers  in  the  air  will  be  mastered, 
and  ere  long  the  dangers  to  those  who  take  flight 
through  the  air  will  be  no  greater  than  the 
dangers  to  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships. 
Flying  across  the  crest  of  the  continent,  above 

88 


the  crags  and  canons,  will  be  enchanting,  and 
this  journey  through  the  upper  air  may  bring  to 
many  the  first  stirring  message  from  the  rocks 
and  templed  hills. 


of  tfy 


(Ko6  of  t$t  (Roefcto 

'JKuRRYiNG  out  of  the  flood-swept  mountains 
^i/  in  northern  Colorado,  in  May,  1905,  I 
came  upon  a  shaggy  black  and  white  dog,  hope- 
lessly fastened  in  an  entanglement  of  flood- 
moored  barbed-wire  fence  that  had  been  caught 
in  a  clump  of  willows.  He  had  been  carried 
down  with  the  flood  and  was  coated  with  earth. 
Masses  of  mud  clung  here  and  there  to  his  mat- 
ted hair,  and  his  handsome  tail  was  encased  as 
though  in  a  plaster  cast.  He  was  bruised,  and 
the  barbs  had  given  him  several  cuts.  One  ear 
was  slit,  and  a  blood-clot  from  a  cut  on  his  head 
almost  closed  his  left  eye. 

Had  I  not  chanced  upon  him,  he  probably 
would  have  perished  from  hunger  and  slow  tor- 
ture. Though  he  must  have  spent  twelve  hours 
in  this  miserable  barbed  binding,  he  made  no 
outcry.  The  barbs  repeatedly  penetrated  his 
skin,  as  I  untangled  and  uncoiled  the  wires  from 
around  his  neck  and  between  his  legs.  As  he 

93 


of 


neither  flinched  nor  howled,  I  did  him  the  in- 
justice to  suppose  that  he  was  almost  dead.  He 
trusted  me,  and  as  I  rolled  him  about,  taking 
off  that  last  thorny  tangle,  the  slit  ear,  bloody 
muzzle,  and  muddy  head  could  not  hide  from 
me  an  expression  of  gratitude  in  his  intelli- 
gent face. 

Returning  from  a  camping-trip,  and  narrowly 
escaping  drowning,  too,  I  was  a  dirty  vagabond 
myself.  When  the  last  wire  dropped  from  the 
prisoner,  he  enthusiastically  began  to  share  his 
earth  coating  with  me.  He  leaped  up  and  half 
clasped  me  in  his  fore  legs,  at  the  same  time 
wiping  most  of  the  mud  off  his  head  on  one  side 
of  my  face.  Then  he  darted  between  my  legs, 
racing  about  and  occasionally  leaping  or  fling- 
ing himself  against  me;  each  time  he  leaped,  he 
twisted  as  he  came  up  so  that  he  struck  me  with 
his  back,  head,  or  side,  and  thus  managed  to 
transfer  much  of  this  fertile  coat  to  me.  He 
finally  ended  by  giving  several  barks,  and  then 
racing  to  the  near-by  river  for  a  drink  and  a 
bath.  I,  too,  needed  another  cloudburst. 

Just  what  kinds  of  dogs  may  have  made  his 
94 


(goB  of  i  0* 


mixed  ancestry  could  not  be  told.  Occasionally 
I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  collie  in  him,  but  for  all 
practical  purposes  he  was  a  shepherd,  and  he 
frequently  exhibited  traits  for  which  the  shep- 
herd is  celebrated.  I  could  never  find  out  where 
he  came  from.  It  may  be  that  the  flood  sepa- 
rated him  from  his  master's  team;  he  may  have 
been  washed  away  from  one  of  the  flooded 
ranches;  or  he  may  have  been,  as  the  stage- 
driver  later  told  me,  "a  tramp  dog  that  has 
been  seen  in  North  Park,  Cheyenne,  and  Gree- 
ley."  Home  he  may  have  left;  master  he  may 
have  lost;  or  tramp  he  may  have  been;  but  he 
insisted  on  going  with  me,  and  after  a  kindly 
though  forceful  protest,  I  gave  in  and  told  him 
he  might  follow. 

The  flood  had  swept  all  bridges  away,  and  I 
was  hurrying  down  the  Poudre,  hoping  to  find 
a  place  to  cross  without  being  compelled  to  swim. 
He  followed,  and  kept  close  to  my  heels  as  I 
wound  in  and  out  among  flood  debris  and  wil- 
low-clumps. But  I  did  not  find  a  place  that 
appeared  shallow. 

As  it  was  necessary  to  cross,  I  patted  my 
95 


of 


companion  good-by,  thinking  he  would  not 
care  to  go  farther,  and  waded  in.  He  squatted 
by  the  water's  edge  and  set  up  a  howl.  I  stopped 
and  explained  to  him  that  this  was  very  bad 
crossing  for  an  injured  dog,  and  jthat  we  would 
better  separate;  but  he  only  howled  the  more. 
He  wanted  to  go  with  me,  but  was  afraid  to  try 
alone. 

Returning  to  the  bank,  I  found  a  rope  in  the 
flood  wreckage,  tied  this  around  his  neck  and 
waded  in.  He  followed  cheerfully,  but  swam 
with  effort.  When  about  half  way  across,  and 
in  the  water  up  to  my  shoulders,  I  attached 
myself  to  a  floating  log  lest  the  dog  should 
weaken  and  need  help.  Within  sixty  or  seventy 
feet  of  the  desired  bank  we  struck  a  stretch  of 
swift,  deep  water,  in  which  I  was  compelled  to 
let  the  animal  go  and  swim  for  the  shore.  My 
companion  was  swept  down  by  the  current,  and 
the  rope  caught  on  a  snag,  entangling  my  legs 
so  that  I  had  to  cut  it  or  drown.  The  current 
swept  poor  doggie  against  some  stranded  wreck- 
age in  midstream.  On  this  he  climbed,  while  I 
struggled  on  to  the  bank. 

96 


$06  of  $* 


I  called  to  him  to  come  on,  but  he  only  howled. 
Again  I  called,  patted  my  knees,  made  friendly 
gesticulations,  and  did  all  I  could  think  of  to 
encourage  him.  Finally,  I  told  him  that  if  he 
would  only  start  I  would  come  part  way  and  be 
ready  to  help  him  if  he  got  into  trouble.  But 
he  would  not  start.  Not  desiring  the  task  of 
returning  for  him  through  the  cold,  strong  cur- 
rent, and  feeling  in  a  hurry,  I  started  on.  He 
howled  and  then  cried  so  piteously  that  I  went 
back  and  towed  him  safely  ashore. 

That  night  some  good  people  of  the  ranch 
house  treated  both  of  us  kindly,  and  in  the 
morning  they  wanted  to  keep  my  companion. 
I  was  willing  that  he  should  stay,  for  he  would 
have  a  good  place,  and  I  was  bound  for  Denver, 
where  I  feared  some  accident  would  befall  him. 
But  he  growled  and  ran  away  when  the  man 
advanced  to  tie  him.  I  started  on  afoot  and  he 
joined  me,  insisting  on  following. 

All  the  time  he  had  been  with  me  his  only 
thought  appeared  to  be  to  stay  with  me.  Game, 
dogs,  horses,  and  people  he  saw  and  passed  with 
expressionless  face,  except  two  or  three  times 

97 


gytU  of  $*  (Roc&e* 

when  he  imagined  I  was  in  danger;  then  he  was 
instantly  alert  for  my  defense.  When  the  stage 
overtook  us,  and  stopped  to  let  me  in,  he  leaped 
in  also,  and  squatted  by  the  driver  with  such  an 
air  of  importance  that  I  half  expected  to  see  him 
take  the  lines  and  drive. 

I  lost  him  in  my  rush  to  make  the  train  at  the 
station.  He  could,  of  course,  have  kept  with 
me  had  he  been  without  fear,  or  if  he  had  really 
so  desired.  As  the  train  pulled  out,  I  saw  him 
start  down-street  with  an  air  of  unconscious 
confidence  that  told  of  wide  experience.  He 
was  a  tramp  dog. 

The  next  time  I  saw  him  was  several  months 
later,  in  Leadville,  some  two  hundred  miles  from 
where  he  left  me.  Where,  in  the  mean  time,  he 
may  have  rambled,  what  towns  he  may  have 
visited,  or  what  good  days  or  troubles  he  may 
have  had,  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 

I  came  walking  into  Leadville  with  snowshoes 
under  my  arm,  from  two  weeks'  snowshoeing 
and  camping  on  the  upper  slopes  of  the  Rockies. 
The  ends  of  broken  tree  limbs  had  torn  numer- 
ous right-angled  triangles  in  my  clothes,  my 

98 


of 

soft  hat  was  unduly  slouchy,  and  fourteen 
nights'  intimate  association  with  a  camp-fire, 
along  with  only  an  infrequent,  indifferent  con- 
tact with  water,  had  made  me  a  sight  to  behold, 
—  for  dogs,  anyway.  On  the  outskirts,  one 
snarly  cur  noticed  me  and  barked;  in  a  few 
minutes  at  least  a  dozen  dogs  were  closely  fol- 
lowing and  making  me  unwelcome  to  their 
haunts.  They  grew  bold  with  time,  numbers, 
and  closer  inspection  of  me.  They  crowded 
unpleasantly  close.  Realizing  that  if  one  of 
them  became  courageous  enough  to  make  a  snap 
at  my  legs,  all  might  follow  his  example,  I  began 
to  sidle  out  of  the  middle  of  the  street,  intending 
to  leap  a  fence  close  by  and  take  refuge  in  a 
house. 

Before  I  could  realize  it,  they  were  snapping 
right  and  left  at  me,  and  howling  as  they  col- 
lided with  the  tail  of  a  snowshoe  which  I  used  as 
a  bayonet.  We  were  close  to  the  fence,  I  trying 
to  find  time  to  turn  and  leap  over;  but  I  was 
too  busy,  and,  without  assistance,  it  is  probable 
that  I  should  have  been  badly  bitten. 

Suddenly  there  was  something  like  a  football 
99 


of 


mix-up  at  my  feet,  then  followed  a  yelping  of 
curs,  with  tucked  tails  dashing  right  and  left  to 
avoid  the  ferocious  tackles  of  a  shaggy  black 
and  white  dog.  It  was  Rob,  who  was  delighted 
to  see  me,  and  whom  I  assured  that  he  was  most 
welcome. 

He  had  been  seen  about  Leadville  for  two  or 
three  months,  and  several  persons  had  bits  of 
information  concerning  him.  All  agreed  that 
he  had  held  aloof  from  other  dogs,  and  that  he 
quietly  ignored  the  friendly  greetings  of  all  who 
made  advances.  He  was  not  quarrelsome,  but 
had  nearly  killed  a  bulldog  that  had  attacked  a 
boy.  On  one  occasion,  a  braying  burro  so  irri- 
tated him  that  he  made  a  savage  attack  on  the 
long-eared  beast,  and  sent  him  pell-mell  down 
the  street,  braying  in  a  most  excited  manner. 

The  drivers  of  ore  wagons  reported  that  he 
occasionally  followed  them  to  and  from  the 
mines  up  the  mountainside.  At  one  livery- 
stable  he  was  a  frequent  caller,  and  usually 
came  in  to  have  a  drink  ;  but  no  one  knew  where 
he  ate  or  slept.  One  day  a  little  mittened  girl 
had  left  her  sled,  to  play  with  him.  He  had 

IOO 


(Bo6  of  tfy 


responded  in  a  most  friendly  manner,  and  had 
raced,  jumped,  circled,  and  barked;  at  last  he 
had  carried  her  slowly,  proudly  on  his  back. 

I  grew  greatly  interested  in  his  biography, 
and  wondered  what  could  have  shaped  his  life 
so  strangely.  In  what  kind  of  a  home  was  his 
pretty  puppyhood  spent?  Why  was  he  so  indif- 
ferent to  dogs  and  people,  and  had  he  left  or 
lost  a  master? 

Early  next  spring,  after  vainly  trying  to  fol- 
low the  trail  of  explorer  Pike,  I  struck  out  on  a 
road  that  led  me  across  the  Wet  Mountain  val- 
ley up  into  Sangre  de  Cristo  Mountains.  When 
well  up  into  the  mountains,  I  saw  a  large  dog 
walking  slowly  toward  me,  and  at  once  recog- 
nized him  as  Rob.  Although  clean  and  well-fed, 
he  held  his  head  low  and  walked  as  though  dis- 
couraged. The  instant  he  scented  me,  however, 
he  leaped  forward  and  greeted  me  with  many  a 
wag,  bark,  and  leap.  He  was  one  hundred  miles 
from  Leadville,  and  fully  three  hundred  miles 
from  the  flood  scene  on  the  Poudre.  He  faced 
about  and  followed  me  up  into  the  alpine  heights, 
far  beyond  trail.  We  saw  a  number  of  deer  and 

IOI 


of 


many  mountain  sheep;  these  he  barely  noticed, 
but  a  bear  that  we  came  upon  he  was  most  eager 
to  fight. 

The  second  night  in  the  mountains,  near 
Home's  Peak,  we  had  an  exciting  time  with  a 
mountain  lion.  Coyotes  howled  during  the 
evening,  much  to  the  dog's  annoyance.  It  was 
a  cold  night,  and,  being  without  bedding,  I  had 
moved  the  fire  and  lain  down  upon  the  warm 
earth.  The  fire  was  at  my  feet,  a  crag  rose  above 
my  head,  and  Rob  was  curled  up  against  my 
back.  A  shrill,  uncanny  cry  of  the  lion  roused  me 
after  less  than  an  hour's  sleep.  The  dog  was 
frightened  and  cuddled  up  close  to  my  face. 
The  lion  was  on  a  low  terrace  in  the  crag,  not 
many  yards  distant.  Having  been  much  in  the 
wilds  alone  and  never  having  been  attacked  by 
lions,  I  had  no  fear  of  them;  but  none  had  ever 
been  so  audacious  as  this  one.  I  began  to  think 
that  perhaps  it  might  be  true  that  a  lion  would 
leap  upon  a  dog  boldly  at  night,  even  though 
the  dog  lay  at  the  feet  of  his  master.  I  kept  close 
watch,  threw  stones  at  suspicious  shadows  on 
the  cliff  terraces,  and  maintained  a  blazing  fire. 

102 


QM  of 

Long  before  sunrise  we  started  down  the 
mountain.  Both  Rob  and  I  were  hungry,  and 
although  we  startled  birds  and  rabbits,  Rob 
paid  not  the  least  attention  to  them.  At  noon, 
on  Madano  Pass,  I  lay  down  for  a  sleep  and  used 
Rob  for  a  pillow.  This  he  evidently  enjoyed, 
for  he  lay  still  with  head  stretched  out  and  one 
eye  open. 

At  mid-afternoon  we  met  a  sheep-herder  who 
was  carrying  a  club.  I  had  seen  this  man  else- 
where, and,  on  recognizing  me  as  he  came  up, 
he  waved  his  club  by  the  way  of  expressing 
gladness.  Rob  misinterpreted  this  demonstra- 
tion, and  dragged  me  almost  to  the  frightened 
herder  before  I  could  make  him  understand  that 
this  ragged,  unwashed,  club-carrying  fellow  had 
no  ill  wishes  for  me. 

I  had  in  mind  to  climb  Sierra  Blanca  the  fol- 
lowing day,  and  hoped  to  spend  the  night  in  a 
ranch  house  on  the  northern  slope  of  this  great 
peak.  Toward  sundown  Rob  and  I  climbed 
through  a  pole  fence  and  entered  the  ranch 
house-yard.  Round  a  corner  of  the  house  came 
a  boy  racing  on  a  willow  switch  pony.  On  seeing 

103 


of 


us,  he  stopped,  relaxed  his  hold  on  the  willow 
and  started  for  Rob.  How  happily  he  ran,  hold- 
ing out  both  eager  hands  !  The  dog  sprang  play- 
fully backward,  and  began  to  dodge  and  bark  as 
the  boy  laughingly  and  repeatedly  fell  while 
trying  to  catch  him.  Just  as  I  entered  the  house, 
Rob  was  trying  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  fence 
after  his  new  playmate. 

That  night  Rob  was  agreeable  with  every  one 
in  the  house,  and  even  had  a  romp  with  the  cat. 
These  people  wanted  to  keep  him,  and  offered 
money  and  their  best  saddle-horse.  I  knew  that 
with  them  he  would  have  kind  treatment  to  the 
day  of  his  death.  I  wanted  him,  too,  but  I  knew 
the  weeks  of  mountain-exploring  just  before  me 
would  be  too  hard  for  him.  "Rob  is  a  free  dog," 
I  said,  "and  is,  of  his  own  choice,  simply  travel- 
ing with  me  as  a  companion.  I  cannot  sell  or 
give  him  away.  I  like  him,  but,  if  he  wants  to 
stay,  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  leave  him." 

The  next  morning  every  one  was  wondering 
whether  Rob  would  go  or  stay.  The  dog  had 
made  up  his  mind.  He  watched  me  prepare  to 
leave  with  keenest  interest,  but  it  was  evident 

104 


(FoB  of  tfc 


that  he  had  planned  to  stay,  and  his  boy  friend 
was  very  happy.  As  I  passed  through  the  yard, 
these  two  were  playing  together;  at  the  gate  I 
called  good-by,  at  which  Rob  paused,  gave  a 
few  happy  barks,  and  then  raced  away,  to  try 
to  follow  his  mountain  boy  to  the  top  of  the  old 
pole  fence. 


3  WAS  rambling  alone  on  snowshoes,  doing  some 
winter  observations  in  the  alpine  heights  of 
the  Sangre  de  Cristo  range.  It  was  miles  to 
the  nearest  house.  There  was  but  little  snow 
upon  the  mountains,  and,  for  winter,  the  day 
was  warm.  I  was  thirsty,  and  a  spring  which 
burst  forth  among  the  fragments  of  petrified 
wood  was  more  inviting  than  the  water-bottle 
in  my  pocket.  The  water  was  cool  and  clear, 
tasteless  and,  to  all  appearances,  pure. 

As  I  rose  from  drinking,  a  deadly,  all-gone 
feeling  overcame  me.  After  a  few  seconds  of 
this,  a  violent  and  prolonged  nausea  came  on. 
Evidently  I  had  discovered  a  mineral  spring! 
Perhaps  it  was  arsenic,  perhaps  some  other 
poison.  Poison  of  some  kind  it  must  have 
been,  and  poisonous  mineral  springs  are  not 
unknown. 

The  sickness  was  very  like  seasickness,  with 

a  severe  internal  pain  and  a  mental  stimulus 

109 


of  ®t  QRocfiie* 


added.  After  a  few  minutes  I  partly  recovered 
from  these  effects  and  set  off  sadly  for  the  near- 
est house  of  which  I  had  heard.  This  was  eight 
or  ten  miles  distant  and  I  hoped  to  find  it 
through  the  guidance  of  a  crude  map  which  a 
prospector  had  prepared  for  me.  I  had  not  be- 
fore explored  this  mountainous  section. 

The  gulches  and  ridges  which  descended  the 
slope  at  right  angles  to  my  course  gave  me  a 
rough  sea  which  kept  me  stirred  up.  I  ad- 
vanced in  tottering  installments;  a  slow,  short 
advance  would  be  made  on  wobbly  legs,  then  a 
heave-  to,  as  pay  for  the  advance  gained. 

Now  and  then  there  was  smoothness,  and  I 
took  an  occasional  look  at  severe  Sierra  Blanca 
now  looming  big  before  me.  It  was  mostly  bare 
and  brown  with  a  number  of  icy  plates  and  orna- 
ments shining  in  the  sun. 

At  last  in  the  evening  light,  from  the  top  of 
a  gigantic  moraine,  I  looked  down  upon  the 
river  and  a  log  ranch-house  nestling  in  a  grassy 
open  bordered  with  clumps  of  spruces.  An  old 
lady  and  gentleman  with  real  sympathy  in  their 
faces  stood  in  the  doorway  and  for  a  moment 

no 


SIERRA   BLANCA   IN   WINTER 


nca 

watched  me,  then  hastened  to  help  me  from  the 
pole  fence  to  the  door. 

While  giving  them  an  incoherent  account  of 
my  experience,  I  fell  into  a  stupor,  and  although 
I  had  evidently  much  to  say  concerning  drink- 
ing and  apparently  showed  symptoms  of  too 
much  drink,  these  old  people  did  not  think  me 
drunk.  Waking  from  a  fantastic  dream  I  heard, 
"  Does  he  need  any  more  sage  tea?  "  The  West- 
ern pioneers  have  faith  in  sage  tea  and  many 
ascribe  to  it  all  the  life-saving,  life-extending 
qualities  usually  claimed  for  patent  medicines. 
The  following  morning  I  was  able  to  walk  about, 
while  my  slightly  bloated,  bronzed  face  did  not 
appear  so  badly.  Altogether,  I  looked  much 
better  than  I  felt. 

These  good  old  people  declared  that  they  had 
not  seen  better  days,  but  that  they  were  living 
the  simple  life  from  choice.  They  loved  the 
peace  of  this  isolated  mountain  home  and  the 
companionship  of  the  grand  old  peak.  In  the 
Central  States  the  wife  had  been  a  professor 
in  a  State  school,  while  the  husband  had  been  a 
State's  Attorney. 

in 


of  tfc 


The  nearest  neighbor  was  four  miles  down- 
stream, and  no  one  lived  farther  up  the  moun- 
tain. The  nearest  railroad  station  was  seventy 
rough  mountain-road  miles  away.  It  appeared 
best  to  hasten  to  Denver,  but  two  days  in  a 
jarring  wagon  to  reach  the  railroad  seemed  more 
than  I  could  endure.  I  had  not  planned  even  to 
try  for  the  top  of  Colorado's  highest  peak  in 
midwinter,  but  the  way  across  Sierra  Blanca 
was  shorter  and  probably  much  easier  than  the 
way  around.  Across  the  range,  directly  over 
the  shoulder  of  Sierra  Blanca,  lay  historic  Fort 
Garland.  It  was  only  thirty  miles  away,  and  I 
determined  to  cross  the  range  and  reach  it  in 
time  for  the  midnight  train.  On  hearing  this 
resolution  the  old  people  were  at  first  astonished, 
but  after  a  moment  they  felt  that  they  at  last 
knew  who  I  was. 

"You  must  be  the  Snow  Man!  Surely  no  one 
but  he  would  try  to  do  this  in  winter." 

They,  with  scores  of  other  upland-dwellers, 
had  heard  numerous  and  wild  accounts  of  my 
lone,  unarmed  camping-trips  and  winter  adven- 
tures in  the  mountain  snows. 

112 


The  misgivings  of  the  old  gentleman  concern- 
ing the  wisdom  of  my  move  grew  stronger  when 
he  perceived  how  weak  I  was,  as  we  proceeded 
on  mule-back  up  the  slope  of  Sierra  Blanca.  The 
ice  blocked  us  at  timber-line,  and  in  his  parting 
handclasp  I  felt  the  hope  and  fear  of  a  father 
who  sees  his  son  go  away  into  the  world.  He 
appeared  to  realize  that  I  was  not  only  weak, 
but  that  at  any  moment  I  might  collapse.  He 
knew  the  heights  were  steep  and  stern,  and  that 
in  the  twenty-odd  miles  to  Fort  Garland  there 
was  neither  house  nor  human  being  to  help  me. 
Apparently  he  hoped  that  at  the  last  moment  I 
would  change  my  mind  and  turn  back. 

Up  the  northern  side  of  the  peak  I  made  my 
way.  Now  and  then  it  was  necessary  to  cut  a 
few  steps  in  the  ice-plated  steeps.  The  shoulder 
of  the  peak  across  which  I  was  to  go  was  thir- 
teen thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  in  making 
the  last  climb  to  this  it  was  necessary  to  choose 
between  a  precipitous  ice-covered  slope  and  an 
extremely  steep  rock-slide,  —  more  correctly  a 
rock  glacier.  I  picked  my  way  up  this  with 
the  greatest  caution.  To  start  a  rock  avalanche 

"3 


gpttt  of  tfy 

would  be  easy,  for  the  loose  rocks  lay  insecure 
on  a  slope  of  perilous  steepness.  From  time  to 
time  in  resting  I  heard  the  entire  mass  settling, 
snarling,  and  grinding  its  way  with  glacier  slow- 
ness down  the  steep. 

Just  beneath  the  shoulder  the  tilting  steep- 
ness of  this  rocky  debris  showed  all  too  well  that 
the  slightest  provocation  would  set  a  grinding 
whirlpool  of  a  stone  river  madly  flowing.  The 
expected  at  last  happened  when  a  boulder  upon 
which  I  lightly  leaped  settled  and  then  gave 
way.  The  rocks  before  made  haste  to  get  out 
of  the  way,  while  those  behind  began  readjust- 
ing themselves.  The  liveliest  of  foot-work  kept 
me  on  top  of  the  now  settling,  hesitating,  and 
inclined-to-roll  boulder.  There  was  nothing  sub- 
stantial upon  which  to  leap. 

Slowly  the  heavy  boulder  settled  forward 
with  a  roll,  now  right,  now  left,  with  me  on  top 
trying  to  avoid  being  tumbled  into  the  grinding 
mill  hopper  below.  At  last,  on  the  left,  a  sliding 
mass  of  crushed,  macadamized  rock  offered  a 
possible  means  of  escape.  Not  daring  to  risk 
thrusting  a  leg  into  this  uncertain  mass,  I  al- 

114 


lowed  myself  to  fall  easily  backwards  until  my 
body  was  almost  horizontal,  and  then  face  up- 
wards I  threw  myself  off  the  boulder  with  all 
my  strength.  The  rock  gave  a  great  plunge, 
and  went  bounding  down  the  slope,  sending  the 
smaller  stuff  flying  before  at  each  contact  with 
the  earth. 

Though  completely  relaxed,  and  with  the 
snowshoes  on  my  back  acting  as  a  buffer,  the 
landing  was  something  of  a  jolt.  For  a  few  sec- 
onds I  lay  limp  and  spread  out,  and  drifted 
slowly  along  with  the  slow-sliding  mass  of 
macadam.  When  this  came  to  rest,  I  rose  up 
and  with  the  greatest  concern  for  my  founda- 
tion, made  my  way  upwards,  and  at  last  lay 
down  to  breathe  and  rest  upon  the  solid  granite 
shoulder  of  Sierra  Blanca. 

In  ten  hours  the  midnight  train  would  be  due 
in  Fort  Garland,  and  as  the  way  was  all  down- 
grade, I  hoped  that  my  strength  would  hold 
out  till  I  caught  it.  But,  turning  my  eyes  from 
the  descent  to  the  summit,  I  forgot  the  world 
below,  and  also  my  poison-weakened  body. 
Suddenly  I  felt  and  knew  only  the  charm  and 

"5 


of 


the  call  of  the  summit.  There  are  times  when 
Nature  completely  commands  her  citizens.  A 
splendid  landscape,  sunset  clouds,  or  a  rainbow 
on  a  near-by  mountain's  slope,  —  by  these  one 
may  be  as  completely  charmed  and  made  as 
completely  captive  as  were  those  who  heard  the 
music  of  Orpheus'  lyre.  My  youthful  dream 
had  been  to  scale  peak  after  peak,  and  from  the 
earthly  spires  to  see  the  scenic  world  far  below 
and  far  away.  All  this  had  come  true,  though 
of  many  trips  into  the  sky  and  cloudland,  none 
had  been  up  to  the  bold  heights  of  Blanca. 
Thinking  that  the  poisoned  water  might  take 
me  from  the  list  of  those  who  seek  good  tidings 
in  the  heights,  I  suddenly  determined  to  reach 
those  wintry  wonder-heights  while  yet  I  had 
the  strength.  I  rose  from  relaxation,  laid  down 
my  snowshoes,  and  started  for  the  summit. 

Blanca  is  a  mountain  with  an  enormous 
amount  of  material  in  it,  —  enough  for  a  score 
of  sizable  peaks.  Its  battered  head  is  nearly 
two  thousand  feet  above  its  rugged  shoulder. 
The  sun  sank  slowly  as  I  moved  along  a  rocky 
skyline  ridge  and  at  last  gained  the  summit. 

116 


Beyond  an  infinite  ocean  of  low,  broken 
peaks,  sank  the  sun.  It  was  a  wonderful  sun- 
set effect  in  that  mountain-dotted,  mountain- 
walled  plain,  the  San  Luis  Valley.  Mist- 
wreathed  peaks  rose  from  the  plain,  one  side 
glowing  in  burning  gold,  the  other  bannered 
with  black  shadows.  The  low,  ragged  clouds 
dragged  slanting  shadows  across  the  golden 
pale.  A  million  slender  silver  threads  were  flung 
out  in  a  measureless  horizontal  fan  from  the 
far-away  sun.  The  sunset  from  the  summit  of 
Sierra  Blanca  was  the  grandest  that  I  have  ever 
seen.  The  prismatic  brilliancy  played  on  peak 
and  cloud,  then  changed  into  purple,  fading 
into  misty  gray,  while  the  light  of  this  strong 
mountain  day  slowly  vanished  in  the  infinite 
silence  of  a  perfect  mountain  night. 

Then  came  the  serious  business  of  getting 
down  and  off  the  rough  slope  and  out  of  the 
inky  woods  before  darkness  took  complete  pos- 
session. After  intense  vigilance  and  effort  for 
two  hours,  I  emerged  from  the  forest-robed 
slope  and  started  across  the  easy,  sloping  plain 
beneath  a  million  stars. 

117 


The  night  was  mild  and  still.  Slowly,  across 
the  wide  brown  way,  I  made  my  course,  guided 
by  a  low  star  that  hung  above  Fort  Garland. 
My  strength  ran  low,  and,  in  order  to  sustain 
it,  I  moved  slowly,  lying  down  and  relaxing 
every  few  minutes.  My  mind  was  clear  and 
strangely  active.  With  pleasure  I  recalled  in 
order  the  experiences  of  the  day  and  the  won- 
derful sunset  with  which  it  came  triumphantly 
to  a  close.  As  I  followed  a  straight  line  across 
the  cactus-padded  plains,  I  could  not  help 
wondering  whether  the  Denver  physicians 
would  tell  me  that  going  up  to  see  the  sunset 
was  a  serious  blunder,  or  a  poison-eliminating 
triumph.  However,  the  possibility  of  dying  was 
a  thought  that  never  came. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  when  instinctively  and 
positively  I  felt  that  I  had  traveled  far  enough, 
I  paused ;  but  from  Fort  Garland  neither  sound 
nor  light  came  to  greet  me  in  the  silent,  mysteri- 
ous night.  I  might  pass  close  to  the  low,  dull 
adobes  of  this  station  without  realizing  its  pres- 
ence. So  confident  was  I  that  I  had  gone  far 
enough  that  I  commenced  a  series  of  constantly 

118 


enlarging  semicircles,  trying  to  locate  in  the 
darkness  the  hidden  fort.  In  the  midst  of  these, 
a  coyote  challenged,  and  a  dog  answered.  I  hast- 
ened toward  the  dog  and  came  upon  a  single 
low  adobe  full  of  Mexicans  who  could  not  un- 
derstand me.  However,  their  soft  accents  awak- 
ened vivid  memories  in  my  mind,  and  distinctly 
my  strangely  stimulated  brain  took  me  back 
through  fifteen  years  to  the  seedling  orange 
groves  in  the  land  of  to-morrow  where  I  had 
lingered  and  learned  to  speak  their  tongue.  An 
offer  of  five  dollars  for  transportation  to  Fort 
Garland  in  time  for  the  midnight  train  sent 
Mexicans  flying  in  all  directions  as  though  I 
had  hurled  a  bomb. 

Two  boys  with  an  ancient,  wobbling  horse 
and  buckboard  landed  me  at  the  platform  as  the 
headlight-glare  of  my  train  swept  across  it.  The 
big,  good-natured  conductor  greeted  me  with 
"Here's  the  Snow  Man  again,  —  worse  starved 
than  ever!" 


T&wttjJ  of 


E  ancients  told  many  wonderful  legends 
concerning  the  tree,  and  claimed  for  it 
numerous  extraordinary  qualities.  Modern  ex- 
perience is  finding  some  of  these  legends  to  be 
almost  literal  truth,  and  increasing  knowledge 
of  the  tree  shows  that  it  has  many  of  those  high 
qualities  for  which  it  was  anciently  revered. 
Though  people  no  longer  think  of  it  as  the  Tree 
of  Life,  they  are  beginning  to  realize  that  the 
tree  is  what  enables  our  race  to  make  a  living 
and  to  live  comfortably  and  hopefully  upon  this 
beautiful  world. 

Camping  among  forests  quickly  gives  one  a 
home  feeling  for  them  and  develops  an  apprecia- 
tion of  their  value.  How  different  American  his- 
tory might  have  been  had  Columbus  discovered 
a  treeless  land!  The  American  forests  have 
largely  contributed  to  the  development  of  the 
country.  The  first  settlers  on  the  Atlantic  coast 
felled  and  used  the  waiting  trees  for  home- 

123 


of  ifa 


building;  they  also  used  wood  for  fuel,  furniture, 
and  fortifications.  When  trading-posts  were 
established  in  the  wilderness  the  axe  was  as 
essential  as  the  gun.  From  Atlantic  to  Pacific 
the  pioneers  built  their  cabins  of  wood.  As  the 
country  developed,  wood  continued  to  be  indis- 
pensable ;  it  was  used  in  almost  every  industry, 
and  to-day  it  has  a  more  general  use  than  ever. 

Forests  enrich  us  in  many  ways.  One  of  these 
is  through  the  supply  of  wood  which  they  pro- 
duce, —  which  they  annually  produce.  Wood  is 
one  of  the  most  useful  materials  used  by  man. 
Wood  is  the  home-making  material.  It  gives 
good  cheer  to  a  million  hearthstones.  How 
extensively  it  is  used  for  tools,  furniture,  and 
vehicles,  for  mine  timbers  and  railroad  develop- 
ment !  The  living  influences  which  forests  exert, 
the  environments  which  they  create  and  main- 
tain, are  potent  to  enable  man  best  to  manage 
and  control  the  earth,  the  air,  and  the  water,  so 
that  these  will  give  him  the  greatest  service  and 
do  him  the  least  damage. 

Forests  are  water-distributors,  and  every- 
where their  presence  tends  to  prevent  both 

124 


SPANISH    MOSS  AT   LAKE   CHARLES,   LOUISIANA 


T&eaftfl  of  tfy 


floods  and  extreme  low  water;  they  check  evap- 
oration and  assist  drainage;  they  create  soil; 
they  resist  sudden  changes  of  temperature  ;  they 
break  and  temper  the  winds;  they  do  sanitary 
work  by  taking  impurities  from  the  air;  they 
shelter  and  furnish  homes  for  millions  of  birds 
which  destroy  enormous  numbers  of  weed-seed 
and  injurious  insects.  Lastly,  and  possibly  most 
important,  forests  make  this  earth  comfortable 
and  beautiful.  Next  to  the  soil,  they  are  the 
most  useful  and  helpful  of  Nature's  agencies. 

Forests  are  moderators  of  climate.  They  heat 
and  cool  slowly.  Their  slow  response  to  change 
resists  sudden  changes,  and,  consequently,  they 
mitigate  the  rudeness  with  which  sudden  changes 
are  always  accompanied.  Sudden  changes  of 
temperature  are  often  annoying  and  enervat- 
ing to  man,  and  frequently  do  severe  damage  to 
domestic  plants  and  animals.  They  sometimes 
have  what  may  be  called  an  explosive  effect 
upon  the  life-tissues  of  many  plants  and  animals 
which  man  has  domesticated  and  is  producing 
for  his  benefit.  Many  plants  have  been  domesti- 
cated and  largely  so  specialized  that  they  have 

"5 


of  tfy 


been  rendered  less  hardy.  With  good  care,  these 
plants  are  heavy  producers,  but,  to  have  from 
them  a  premium  harvest  each  year,  they  need 
the  genial  clime,  the  stimulating  shelter,  and 
the  constant  protection  which  only  forests  can 
supply.  Closely  allied  to  changes  of  tempera- 
ture is  the  movement  of  the  air.  In  the  sea 
every  peninsula  is  a  breakwater:  on  land  every 
grove  is  a  windbreak.  The  effect  of  the  violence 
of  high  winds  on  fruited  orchards  and  fields  of 
golden  grain  may  be  compared  to  the  beatings 
of  innumerable  clubs.  Hot  waves  and  cold 
waves  come  like  withering  breaths  of  flame  and 
frost  to  trees  and  plants.  High  winds  may  be 
mastered  by  the  forest.  The  forest  will  make 
even  the  Storm  King  calm,  and  it  will  also 
soften,  temper,  and  subdue  the  hottest  or  the 
coldest  waves  that  blow.  Forests  may  be  placed 
so  as  to  make  every  field  a  harbor. 

The  air  is  an  invisible  blotter  that  is  con- 
stantly absorbing  moisture.  Its  capacity  to 
evaporate  and  absorb  increases  with  rapidity 
of  movement.  Roughly,  six  times  as  much 
water  is  evaporated  from  a  place  that  is  swept 

126 


of 


by  a  twenty-five-mile  wind  as  from  a  place  in 
the  dead  calm  of  the  forest.  The  quantity  of 
water  evaporated  within  a  forest  or  in  its  shelter 
is  many  times  less  than  is  evaporated  from  the 
soil  in  an  exposed  situation.  This  shelter  and 
the  consequent  decreased  evaporation  may  save 
a  crop  in  a  dry  season.  During  seasons  of  scanty 
rainfall  the  crops  often  fail,  probably  not  be- 
cause sufficient  water  has  not  fallen,  but  because 
the  thirsty  winds  have  drawn  from  the  soil  so 
much  moisture  that  the  water-table  in  the  soil 
is  lowered  below  the  reach  of  the  roots  of  the 
growing  plants. 

In  the  arid  West  the  extra-dry  winds  are  in- 
satiable. In  many  localities  their  annual  capa- 
city to  absorb  water  is  greater  than  the  annual 
precipitation  of  water.  In  "dry-farming"  local- 
ities, the  central  idea  is  to  save  all  the  water 
that  Nature  supplies,  to  prevent  the  moisture 
from  evaporating,  to  protect  it  from  the  robber 
winds.  Forests  greatly  check  evaporation,  and 
Professor  L.  G.  Carpenter,  the  celebrated  irri- 
gation engineer,  says  that  forests  are  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  interests  of  irrigated  agricul- 

127 


of 


ture.  Considering  the  many  influences  of  the 
forest  that  are  beneficial  to  agriculture,  it  would 
seem  as  though  ideal  forest  environments  would 
be  the  best  annual  assurance  that  the  crops  of 
the  field  would  not  fail  and  that  the  soil  would 
most  generously  respond  to  the  seed-sower. 

So  well  is  man  served  in  the  distribution  of  the 
waters  and  the  management  of  their  movements 
by  the  forests,  that  forests  seem  almost  to  think. 
The  forest  is  an  eternal  mediator  between  winds 
and  gravity  in  their  never-ending  struggle  for 
the  possession  of  the  waters.  The  forest  seems 
to  try  to  take  the  intermittent  and  ever-  varying 
rainfall  and  send  the  collected  waters  in  slow 
and  steady  stream  back  to  the  sea.  It  has 
marked  success,  and  one  may  say  it  is  only  to 
the  extent  the  forest  succeeds  in  doing  this  that 
the  waters  become  helpful  to  man.  Possibly 
they  may  need  assistance  in  this  work.  Any- 
way, so  great  is  the  evaporation  on  the  moun- 
tains of  the  West  that  John  Muir  says,  "Cut 
down  the  groves  and  the  streams  will  vanish." 
Many  investigators  assert  that  only  thirty  per 
cent  of  the  rainfall  is  returned  by  the  rivers 

128 


TXtotQ  of 

to  the  sea.  Evaporation  —  winds  —  probably 
carry  away  the  greater  portion  of  the  remainder. 
Afforestation  has  created  springs  and  streams, 
not  by  increasing  rainfall,  although  the  forests 
may  do  this,  but  by  saving  the  water  that  falls, 
—  by  checking  evaporation.  On  some  exposed 
watersheds  the  winds  carry  off  as  much  as 
ninety  per  cent  of  the  annual  precipitation.  It 
seems  plain  that  wider,  better  forests  would 
mean  deeper,  steadier  streams.  Forests  not  only 
check  evaporation,  but  they  store  water  and 
guard  it  from  the  greed  of  gravity.  The  forest 
gets  the  water  into  the  ground  where  a  brake  is 
put  upon  the  pull  of  gravity.  Forest  floors  are 
covered  with  fluffy  little  rugs  and  pierced  with 
countless  tree-roots.  So  all-absorbing  is  the 
porous,  rug-covered  forest  floor  that  most  of 
the  water  that  falls  in  the  forest  goes  into  the 
ground;  a  small  percentage  may  run  off  on  the 
surface,  but  the  greater  part  settles  into  the 
earth  and  seeps  slowly  by  subterranean  drain- 
age, till  at  last  it  bubbles  out  in  a  spring  some 
distance  away  and  below  the  place  where  the 
raindrops  came  to  earth.  The  underground 

129 


of 


drainage,  upon  which  the  forest  insists,  is  much 
slower  and  steadier  than  the  surface  drainage 
of  a  treeless  place.  The  tendency  of  the  forest 
is  to  take  the  water  of  the  widely  separated 
rainy  days  and  dole  it  out  daily  to  the  streams. 
The  forest  may  be  described  as  a  large,  ever- 
leaking  reservoir. 

The  forest  is  so  large  a  reservoir  that  it  rarely 
overflows,  and  seepage  from  it  is  so  slow  that  it 
seldom  goes  dry.  The  presence  of  a  forest  on  a 
watershed  tends  to  give  the  stream  which  rises 
thereon  its  daily  supply  of  water,  whether  it 
rains  every  day  or  not.  By  checking  evapora- 
tion, the  forest  swells  the  volume  of  sea-going 
water  in  this  stream,  and  thereby  increases  its 
water-power  and  makes  it  more  useful  as  a  deep 
waterway.  Forests  so  regulate  stream-flow  that 
if  all  the  watersheds  were  forested  but  few  floods 
would  occur.  Forest-destruction  has  allowed 
many  a  flood  to  form  and  foam  and  to  ruin  a 
thousand  homes.  A  deforested  hillside  may,  in 
a  single  storm,  loose  the  hoarded  soil  of  a  thou- 
sand years.  Deforestation  may  result  in  filling 
a  river-channel  and  in  stopping  boats  a  thou- 

130 


of 


sand  miles  downstream.  By  bringing  forests  to 
our  aid,  we  may  almost  domesticate  and  con- 
trol winds  and  waters! 

One  of  the  most  important  resources  is  soil, 
—  the  cream  of  the  earth,  the  plant-food  of  the 
world.  Scientists  estimate  that  it  takes  nature 
ten  thousand  years  to  create  a  foot  of  soil.  This 
heritage  of  ages,  though  so  valuable  and  so 
slowly  created,  may  speedily  be  washed  away 
and  lost.  Forests  help  to  anchor  it  and  to  hold 
it  in  productive  places.  Every  tree  stands  upon 
an  inverted  basket  of  roots  and  rootlets.  Rains 
may  come  and  rains  may  go,  but  these  roots 
hold  the  soil  in  place.  The  soil  of  forest-covered 
hillsides  is  reinforced  and  anchored  with  a  web- 
work  of  the  roots  and  rootlets  of  the  forest. 
Assisting  in  the  soil-anchorage  is  the  accumu- 
lation of  twigs  and  leaves,  the  litter  rugs  on  the 
forest  floor.  These  cover  the  soil,  and  protect  it 
from  both  wind  and  water  erosion.  The  roots 
and  rugs  not  only  hold  soil,  but  add  to  the  soil 
matter  by  catching  and  holding  the  trash,  silt, 
dust,  and  sediment  that  is  blown  or  washed  into 
the  forest.  The  forest  also  creates  new  soil, 


of 


enriches  the  very  land  it  is  using.  Trash  on  a 
forest  floor  absorbs  nitrogenous  matter  from 
the  air  ;  every  fallen  leaf  is  a  flake  of  a  fertilizer  ; 
roots  pry  rocks  apart,  and  this  sets  up  chemical 
action.  Acids  given  off  by  tree-roots  dissolve 
even  the  rocks,  and  turn  these  to  soil.  A  tree, 
unlike  most  plants,  creates  more  soil  than  it  con- 
sumes. In  a  forest  the  soil  is  steadily  growing 
richer  and  deeper. 

Birds  are  one  of  the  resources  of  the  country. 
They  are  the  protectors,  the  winged  watchmen, 
of  the  products  which  man  needs.  Birds  are 
hearty  eaters,  and  the  food  which  they  devour 
consists  mostly  of  noxious  weed-seed  and  inju- 
rious insects.  Several  species  of  birds  feed  freely 
upon  caterpillars,  moths,  wood-lice,  wood-bor- 
ers, and  other  deadly  tree-enemies.  Most  spe- 
cies of  birds  need  the  forest  for  shelter,  a 
home,  and  a  breeding-place;  and,  having  the 
forest,  they  multiply  and  fly  out  into  the  fields 
and  orchards,  and  wage  a  more  persistent  war- 
fare even  than  the  farmer  upon  the  insistent 
and  innumerable  crop-injuring  weeds,  and  also 
the  swarms  of  insatiable  crop-devouring  insects. 

132 


of 


Birds  work  for  us  all  the  time,  and  board  them- 
selves most  of  the  time.  Birds  are  of  inestimable 
value  to  agriculture,  but  many  of  these  useful 
species  need  forest  shelter.  So  to  lose  a  forest 
means  at  the  same  time  to  lose  the  service  of 
these  birds. 

The  forest  is  a  sanitary  agent.  It  is  constantly 
eliminating  impurities  from  the  earth  and  the 
air.  Trees  check,  sweep,  and  filter  from  the  air 
quantities  of  filthy,  germ-laden  dust.  Their 
leaves  absorb  the  poisonous  gases  from  the  air. 
Roots  assist  in  drainage,  and  absorb  impurities 
from  the  soil.  Roots  also  give  off  acids,  and 
these  acids,  together  with  the  acids  released  by 
the  fallen,  decaying  leaves,  have  a  sterilizing 
effect  upon  the  soil.  Trees  help  to  keep  the  earth 
sweet  and  clean,  and  water  which  comes  from  a 
forested  watershed  is  likely  to  be  pure.  Many 
unsanitary  areas  have  been  redeemed  and  ren- 
dered healthy  by  tree-planting. 

Numerous  are  the  products  and  the  influences 
of  the  trees.  Many  medicines  for  the  sick-room 
are  compounded  wholly  or  in  part  from  the 
bark,  the  fruit,  the  juices,  or  the  leaves  of  trees. 

133 


of  t$t 


Fruits  and  nuts  are  at  least  the  poetry  of  the 
dining-table.  One  may  say  of  trees  what  the 
French  physician  said  of  water:  needed  exter- 
nally, internally,  and  eternally  !  United  we  stand, 
but  divided  we  fall,  is  the  history  of  peoples 
and  forests.  Forest-destruction  seems  to  offer 
the  speediest  way  by  which  a  nation  may  go 
into  decline  or  death.  "Without  forests  "  are  two 
words  that  may  be  written  upon  the  maps  of 
most  depopulated  lands  and  declining  nations. 

When  one  who  is  acquainted  with  both  his- 
tory and  natural  history  reads  of  a  nation  that 
"its  forests  are  destroyed,"  he  naturally  pic- 
tures the  train  of  evils  that  inevitably  follow,  — 
the  waste  and  failure  that  will  come  without  the 
presence  of  forests  to  prevent.  He  realizes  that 
the  ultimate  condition  to  be  expected  in  this 
land  is  a  waste  of  desolate  distances,  arched 
with  a  gray,  sad  sky  beneath  which  a  few  lonely 
ruins  stand  crumbling  and  pathetic  in  the  des- 
ert's drifting  sand. 

The  trees  are  our  friends.  As  an  agency  for 
promoting  and  sustaining  the  general  welfare, 
the  forest  stands  preeminent.  A  nation  which 


of 


appreciates  trees,  which  maintains  sufficient 
forests,  and  these  in  the  most  serviceable  places, 
may  expect  to  enjoy  regularly  the  richest  of 
harvests;  it  will  be  a  nation  of  homes  and  land 
that  is  comfortable,  full  of  hope,  and  beautiful. 


Jtte 


SOREST  fires  led  me  to  abandon  the  most 
nearly  ideal  journey  through  the  wilds  I 
had  ever  embarked  upon,  but  the  conflagra- 
tions that  took  me  aside  filled  a  series  of  my 
days  and  nights  with  wild,  fiery  exhibitions  and 
stirring  experiences.  It  was  early  September 
and  I  had  started  southward  along  the  crest  of 
the  continental  divide  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
in  northern  Colorado.  All  autumn  was  to  be 
mine  and  upon  this  alpine  skyline  I  was  to 
saunter  southward,  possibly  to  the  land  of  cac- 
tus and  mirage.  Not  being  commanded  by 
either  the  calendar  or  the  compass,  no  day  was 
to  be  marred  by  hurrying.  I  was  just  to  linger 
and  read  all  the  nature  stories  in  the  heights  that 
I  could  comprehend  or  enjoy.  From  my  start- 
ing-place, twelve  thousand  feet  above  the  tides, 
miles  of  continental  slopes  could  be  seen  that 
sent  their  streams  east  and  west  to  the  two  far- 
off  seas.  With  many  a  loitering  advance,  with 

139 


of 


many  a  glad  going  back,  intense  days  were  lived. 
After  two  great  weeks  I  climbed  off  the  treeless 
heights  and  went  down  into  the  woods  to  watch 
and  learn  the  deadly  and  dramatic  ways  of 
forest  fires. 

This  revolution  in  plans  was  brought  about 
by  the  view  from  amid  the  broken  granite  on 
the  summit  of  Long's  Peak.  Far  below  and  far 
away  the  magnificent  mountain  distances  re- 
posed in  the  autumn  sunshine.  The  dark  crags, 
snowy  summits,  light-tipped  peaks,  bright 
lakes,  purple  forests  traced  with  silver  streams 
and  groves  of  aspen,  —  all  fused  and  faded 
away  in  the  golden  haze.  But  these  splendid 
scenes  were  being  blurred  and  blotted  out  by 
the  smoke  of  a  dozen  or  more  forest  fires. 

Little  realizing  that  for  six  weeks  I  was  to 
hesitate  on  fire-threatened  heights  and  hurry 
through  smoke-filled  forests,  I  took  a  good  look 
at  the  destruction  from  afar  and  then  hastened 
toward  the  nearest  fire-front.  This  was  a  smoke- 
clouded  blaze  on  the  Rabbit-Ear  Range  that 
was  storming  its  way  eastward.  In  a  few  hours 
it  would  travel  to  the  Grand  River,  which 

140 


flowed  southward  through  a  straight,  mountain- 
walled  valley  that  was  about  half  a  mile  wide. 
Along  the  river,  occupying  about  half  the  width 
of  the  valley,  was  a  picturesque  grassy  avenue 
that  stretched  for  miles  between  ragged  forest- 
edges. 

There  was  but  little  wind  and,  hoping  to  see 
the  big  game  that  the  flames  might  drive  into 
the  open,  I  innocently  took  my  stand  in  the 
centre  of  the  grassy  stretch  directly  before  the 
fire.  This  great  smoky  fire-billow,  as  I  viewed 
it  from  the  heights  while  I  was  descending, 
was  advancing  with  a  formidable  crooked  front 
about  three  miles  across.  The  left  wing  was 
more  than  a  mile  in  advance  of  the  active  though 
lagging  right  one.  As  I  afterward  learned,  the 
difference  in  speed  of  the  two  wings  was  caused 
chiefly  by  topography;  the  forest  conditions 
were  similar,  but  the  left  wing  had  for  some  time 
been  burning  up  a  slope  while  the  right  had 
traveled  down  one.  Fire  burns  swiftly  up  a 
slope,  but  slowly  down  it.  Set  fire  simultane- 
ously to  the  top  and  the  bottom  of  a  forest  on  a 
steep  slope  and  the  blaze  at  the  bottom  will 

141 


gpttt  of  tfy  (gocfiiee 

overrun  at  least  nine-tenths  of  the  area.  Flame 
and  the  drafts  that  it  creates  sweep  upward. 

Upon  a  huge  lava  boulder  in  the  grassy  stretch 
I  commanded  a  view  of  more  than  a  mile  of  the 
forest-edge  and  was  close  to  where  a  game  trail 
came  into  it  out  of  the  fiery  woods.  On  this 
burning  forest-border  a  picturesque,  unplanned 
wild-animal  parade  passed  before  me. 

Scattered  flakes  of  ashes  were  falling  when  a 
herd  of  elk  led  the  exodus  of  wild  folk  from  the 
fire-doomed  forest.  They  came  stringing  out  of 
the  woods  into  the  open,  with  both  old  and 
young  going  forward  without  confusion  and  as 
though  headed  for  a  definite  place  or  pasture. 
They  splashed  through  a  beaver  pond  without 
stopping  and  continued  their  way  up  the  river. 
There  was  no  show  of  fear,  no  suggestion  of 
retreat.  They  never  looked  back.  Deer  strag- 
gled out  singly  and  in  groups.  It  was  plain  that 
all  were  fleeing  from  danger,  all  were  excitedly 
trying  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  something;  and 
they  did  not  appear  to  know  where  they  were 
going.  Apparently  they  gave  more  troubled 
attention  to  the  roaring,  the  breath,  and  the 

142 


movements  of  that  fiery,  mysterious  monster 
than  to  the  seeking  of  a  place  of  permanent 
safety.  In  the  grassy  open,  into  which  the 
smoke  was  beginning  to  drift  and  hang,  the 
deer  scattered  and  lingered.  At  each  roar  of  the 
fire  they  turned  hither  and  thither  excitedly  to 
look  and  listen.  A  flock  of  mountain  sheep,  in 
a  long,  narrow,  closely  pressed  rank  and  led  by 
an  alert,  aggressive  bighorn,  presented  a  fine 
appearance  as  it  raced  into  the  open.  The  ad- 
mirable directness  of  these  wild  animals  put 
them  out  of  the  category  occupied  by  tame, 
"silly  sheep."  Without  slackening  pace  they 
swept  across  the  grassy  valley  in  a  straight  line 
and  vanished  in  the  wooded  slope  beyond.  Now 
and  then  a  coyote  appeared  from  somewhere 
and  stopped  for  a  time  in  the  open  among  the 
deer;  all  these  wise  little  wolves  were  a  trifle 
nervous,  but  each  had  himself  well  in  hand. 
Glimpses  were  had  of  two  stealthy  mountain 
lions,  now  leaping,  now  creeping,  now  swiftly 
fleeing. 

Bears  were  the  most  matter-of-fact  fellows 
in  the  exodus.  Each  loitered  in  the  grass  and 


of  $e  (gocfiiw 

occasionally  looked  toward  the  oncoming  dan- 
ger. Their  actions  showed  curiosity  and  anger, 
but  not  alarm.  Each  duly  took  notice  of  the 
surrounding  animals,  and  one  old  grizzly  even 
struck  viciously  at  a  snarling  coyote.  Two 
black  bear  cubs,  true  to  their  nature,  had  a 
merry  romp.  Even  these  serious  conditions 
could  not  make  them  solemn.  Each  tried  to 
prevent  the  other  from  climbing  a  tree  that 
stood  alone  in  the  open;  around  this  tree  they 
clinched,  cuffed,  and  rolled  about  so  merrily 
that  the  frightened  wild  folks  were  attracted 
and  momentarily  forgot  their  fears.  The  only 
birds  seen  were  some  grouse  that  whirred  and 
sailed  by  on  swift,  definite  wings;  they  were 
going  somewhere. 

With  subdued  and  ever-varying  roar  the  fire 
steadily  advanced.  It  constantly  threw  off  an 
upcurling,  unbroken  cloud  of  heavy  smoke  that 
hid  the  flames  from  view.  Now  and  then  a 
whirl  of  wind  brought  a  shower  of  sparks  to- 
gether with  bits  of  burning  bark  out  over  the 
open  valley. 

Just  as  the  flames  were  reaching  the  margin 
144 


$QU*t  $\U 

of  the  forest  a  great  bank  of  black  smoke  curled 
forward  and  then  appeared  to  fall  into  the  grassy 
open.  I  had  just  a  glimpse  of  a  few  fleeing  ani- 
mals, then  all  became  hot,  fiery,  and  dark.  Red 
flames  darted  through  swirling  black  smoke. 
It  was  stifling.  Leaping  into  a  beaver  pond,  I 
lowered  my  own  sizzling  temperature  and  that 
of  my  smoking  clothes.  The  air  was  too  hot  and 
black  for  breathing;  so  I  fled,  floundering 
through  the  water,  down  Grand  River. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  took  me  beyond  danger- 
line  and  gave  me  fresh  air.  Here  the  smoke 
ceased  to  settle  to  the  earth,  but  extended  in 
a  light  upcurling  stratum  a  few  yards  above 
it.  Through  this  smoke  the  sunlight  came  so 
changed  that  everything  around  was  magically 
covered  with  a  canvas  of  sepia  or  rich  golden 
brown.  I  touched  the  burned  spots  on  hands 
and  face  with  real,  though  raw,  balsam  and  then 
plunged  into  the  burned-over  district  to  explore 
the  extensive  ruins  of  the  fire. 

A  prairie  fire  commonly  consumes  everything 
to  the  earth-line  and  leaves  behind  it  only  a 
black  field.  Rarely  does  a  forest  fire  make  so 

145 


gpdt  of  tfy  (Roc6te0 


clean  a  sweep;  generally  it  burns  away  the 
smaller  limbs  and  the  foliage,  leaving  the  tree 
standing  all  blackened  and  bristling.  This  fire, 
like  thousands  of  others,  consumed  the  litter 
carpet  on  the  forest  floor  and  the  mossy  covering 
of  the  rocks;  it  ate  the  underbrush,  devoured 
the  foliage,  charred  and  burned  the  limbs,  and 
blackened  the  trunks.  Behind  was  a  dead  for- 
est in  a  desolate  field,  a  territory  with  millions 
of  bristling,  mutilated  trees,  a  forest  ruin  im- 
pressively picturesque  and  pathetic.  From  a 
commanding  ridge  I  surveyed  this  ashen  desert 
and  its  multitude  of  upright  figures  all  blurred 
and  lifeless;  these  stood  everywhere,  —  in  the 
gulches,  on  the  slopes,  on  the  ridges  against  the 
sky,  —  and  they  bristled  in  every  vanishing 
distance.  Over  the  entire  area  only  a  few  trees 
escaped  with  their  lives;  these  were  isolated  in 
soggy  glacier  meadows  or  among  rock  fields  and 
probably  were  defended  by  friendly  air-currents 
when  the  fiery  billow  rolled  over  them. 

When  I  entered  the  burn  that  afternoon  the 
fallen  trees  that  the  fire  had  found  were  in  ashes, 
the  trees  just  killed  were  smoking,  while  the 

146 


fvttet  5 


standing  dead  trees  were  just  beginning  to  burn 
freely.  That  night  these  scattered  beacons 
strangely  burned  among  the  multitudinous 
dead.  Close  to  my  camp  all  through  that  night 
several  of  these  fire  columns  showered  sparks 
like  a  fountain,  glowed  and  occasionally  lighted 
up  the  scene  with  flaming  torches.  Weird  and 
strange  in  the  night  were  the  groups  of  silhou- 
etted figures  in  a  shadow-dance  between  me  and 
the  flickering,  heroic  torches. 

The  greater  part  of  the  area  burned  over  con- 
sisted of  mountain-slopes  and  ridges  that  lay 
between  the  altitudes  of  nine  thousand  and 
eleven  thousand  feet.  The  forest  was  made  up 
almost  entirely  of  Engelmann  and  Douglas 
spruces,  alpine  fir,  and  flexilis  pine.  A  majority 
of  these  trees  were  from  fifteen  to  twenty-four 
inches  in  diameter,  and  those  examined  were 
two  hundred  and  fourteen  years  of  age.  Over 
the  greater  extent  of  the  burn  the  trees  were  tall 
and  crowded,  about  two  thousand  to  the  acre. 
As  the  fire  swept  over  about  eighteen  thousand 
acres,  the  number  of  trees  that  perished  must 
have  approximated  thirty-six  million. 

147 


of 


Fires  make  the  Rocky  Mountains  still  more 
rocky.  This  bald  fact  stuck  out  all  through  this 
burn  and  in  dozens  of  others  afterward  visited. 
Most  Rocky  Mountain  fires  not  only  skin  off 
the  humus  but  so  cut  up  the  fleshy  soil  and  so 
completely  destroy  the  fibrous  bindings  that 
the  elements  quickly  drag  much  of  it  from  the 
bones  and  fling  it  down  into  the  stream-chan- 
nels. Down  many  summit  slopes  in  these  moun- 
tains, where  the  fires  went  to  bed-rock,  the 
snows  and  waters  still  scoot  and  scour.  The  fire 
damage  to  some  of  these  steep  slopes  cannot 
be  repaired  for  generations  and  even  centuries. 
Meantime  these  disfigured  places  will  support 
only  a  scattered  growth  of  trees  and  sustain 
only  a  sparse  population  of  animals. 

In  wandering  about  I  found  that  the  average 
thickness  of  humus  —  decayed  vegetable  mat- 
ter —  consumed  by  this  fire  was  about  five 
inches.  The  removal  of  even  these  few  inches 
of  covering  had  in  many  places  exposed  boul- 
ders and  bed-rock.  On  many  shallow-covered 
steeps  the  soil-anchoring  roots  were  consumed 
and  the  productive  heritage  of  ages  was  left  to 

148 


fvctet  Jtee 


be  the  early  victim  of  eager  running  water  and 
insatiable  gravity. 

Probably  the  part  of  this  burn  that  was  most 
completely  devastated  was  a  tract  of  four  or  five 
hundred  acres  in  a  zone  a  little  below  timber- 
line.  Here  stood  a  heavy  forest  on  solid  rock 
in  thirty-two  inches  of  humus.  The  tree-roots 
burned  with  the  humus,  and  down  crashed  the 
trees  into  the  flames.  The  work  of  a  thousand 
years  was  undone  in  a  day! 

The  loss  of  animal  life  in  this  fire  probably 
was  not  heavy;  in  five  or  six  days  of  exploring 
I  came  upon  fewer  than  three  dozen  fire  vic- 
tims of  all  kinds.  Among  the  dead  were  ground- 
hogs, bobcats,  snowshoe  rabbits,  and  a  few 
grouse.  Flying  about  the  waste  were  crested 
jays,  gray  jays  ("camp  birds"),  and  magpies. 
Coyotes  came  early  to  search  for  the  feast  pre- 
pared by  the  fire. 

During  the  second  day's  exploration  on  the 
burn,  a  grizzly  bear  and  I  came  upon  two  roasted 
deer  in  the  end  of  a  gulch.  I  was  first  to  arrive, 
so  Mr.  Grizzly  remained  at  what  may  have  been 
a  respectful  distance,  restlessly  watching  me. 

149 


gpttt  of 

With  his  nearness  and  impolite  stare  I  found  it 
very  embarrassing  to  eat  alone.  However,  two 
days  of  fasting  had  prepared  me  for  this  primi- 
tive feast;  and,  knowing  that  bears  were  better 
than  their  reputation,  I  kept  him  waiting  until 
I  was  served.  On  arising  to  go,  I  said,  "Come, 
you  may  have  the  remainder;  there  is  plenty  of 
it." 

The  fire  was  followed  by  clear  weather,  and 
for  days  the  light  ash  lay  deep  and  undisturbed 
over  the  burn.  One  morning  conditions  changed 
and  after  a  few  preliminary  whirlwinds  a  gusty 
gale  set  in.  In  a  few  minutes  I  felt  and  appeared 
as  though  just  from  an  ash-barrel.  The  ashen 
dust-storm  was  blinding  and  choking,  and  I  fled 
for  the  unburned  heights.  So  blinding  was  the 
flying  ash  that  I  was  unable  to  see;  and,  to  make 
matters  worse,  the  trees  with  fire-weakened 
foundations  and  limbs  almost  severed  by  flames 
commenced  falling.  The  limbs  were  flung  about 
in  a  perfectly  reckless  manner,  while  the  falling 
trees  took  a  fiendish  delight  in  crashing  down 
alongside  me  at  the  very  moment  that  the  storm 
was  most  blinding.  Being  without  nerves  and 

150 


incidentally  almost  choked,  I  ignored  the  falling 
bodies  and  kept  going. 

Several  times  I  rushed  blindly  against  limb- 
points  and  was  rudely  thrust  aside;  and  finally 
I  came  near  walking  off  into  space  from  the  edge 
of  a  crag.  After  this  I  sought  temporary  refuge  to 
the  leeward  of  a  boulder,  with  the  hope  that  the 
weakened  trees  would  speedily  fall  and  end  the 
danger  from  that  source.  The  ash  flew  thicker 
than  ever  did  gale-blown  desert  dust ;  it  was  im- 
possible to  see  and  so  nearly  impossible  to  breathe 
that  I  was  quickly  driven  forth.  I  have  been  in 
many  dangers,  but  this  is  the  only  instance  in 
which  I  was  ever  irritated  by  Nature's  blind 
forces.  At  last  I  made  my  escape  from  them. 

From  clear  though  wind-swept  heights  I  long 
watched  the  burned  area  surrender  its  slowly 
accumulated,  rich  store  of  plant- food  to  the  in- 
satiable and  all-sweeping  wind.  By  morning, 
when  the  wind  abated,  the  garnered  fertility 
and  phosphates  of  generations  were  gone,  and 
the  sun  cast  the  shadows  of  millions  of  leafless 
trees  upon  rock  bones  and  barren  earth.  And 
the  waters  were  still  to  take  their  toll. 


of 


Of  course  Nature  would  at  once  commence  to 
repair  and  would  again  upbuild  upon  the  found- 
ations left  by  the  fire;  such,  however,  were.  the 
climatic  and  geological  conditions  that  improv- 
ing changes  would  come  but  slowly.  In  a  cen- 
tury only  a  good  beginning  could  be  made.  For 
years  the  greater  portion  of  the  burn  would  be 
uninhabitable  by  bird  or  beast;  those  driven 
forth  by  this  fire  would  seek  home  and  food  in 
the  neighboring  territory,  where  this  influx  of 
population  would  compel  interesting  readjust- 
ments and  create  bitter  strife  between  the  old 
wild-folk  population  and  the  new. 

This  fire  originated  from  a  camp-fire  which  a 
hunting-party  had  left  burning;  it  lived  three 
weeks  and  extended  eastward  from  the  starting- 
place.  Along  most  of  its  course  it  burned  to  the 
timber-line  on  the  left,  while  rocky  ridges,  gla- 
cier meadows,  and  rock  fields  stopped  its  ex- 
tension and  determined  the  side  line  on  the 
right;  it  ran  out  of  the  forest  and  stopped  in 
the  grassy  Grand  River  Valley.  Across  its  course 
were  a  number  of  rocky  ridges  and  grassy 
gorges  where  the  fire  could  have  been  easily 

152 


stopped  by  removing  the  scattered  trees,  —  by 
burning  the  frail  bridges  that  enabled  the  fire  to 
travel  from  one  dense  forest  to  abundant  fuel 
beyond.  In  a  city  it  is  common  to  smother  a  fire 
with  water  or  acid,  but  with  a  forest  fire  usually 
it  is  best  to  break  its  inflammable  line  of  com- 
munication by  removing  from  before  it  a  width 
of  fibrous  material.  The  axe,  rake,  hoe,  and 
shovel  are  the  usual  fire-fighting  tools. 

A  few  yards  away  from  the  spot  where  the 
fire  started  I  found,  freshly  cut  in  the  bark  of 
an  aspen,  the  inscription :  — 

JSM 
YALE  18 

A  bullet  had  obliterated  the  two  right-hand 
figures.  - 

For  days  I  wandered  over  the  mountains,  go- 
ing from  fire  to  smoke  and  studying  burns  new 
and  old.  One  comparatively  level  tract  had  been 
fireswept  in  1791.  On  this  the  soil  was  good. 
Lodge-pole  pine  had  promptly  restocked  the 
burn,  but  these  trees  were  now  being  smothered 
out  by  a  promising  growth  of  Engelmann  spruce. 


Fifty-seven  years  before  my  visit  a  fire  had 
burned  over  about  four  thousand  acres  and  was 
brought  to  a  stand  by  a  lake,  a  rocky  ridge,  and 
a  wide  fire-line  that  a  snowslide  had  cleared 
through  the  woods.  The  surface  of  the  burn  was 
coarse,  disintegrated  granite  and  sloped  toward 
the  west,  where  it  was  exposed  to  prevailing 
high  westerly  winds.  A  few  kinnikinnick  rugs 
apparently  were  the  only  green  things  upon  the 
surface,  and  only  a  close  examination  revealed 
a  few  stunted  trees  starting.  It  was  almost  bar- 
ren. Erosion  was  still  active;  there  were  no 
roots  to  bind  the  finer  particles  together  or  to 
anchor  them  in  place.  One  of  the  most  striking 
features  of  the  entire  burn  was  that  the  trees 
killed  by  the  fire  fifty-seven  years  ago  were 
standing  where  they  died.  They  had  excellent 
root-anchorage  in  the  shattered  surface,  and 
many  of  them  probably  would  remain  erect  for 
years.  The  fire  that  killed  them  had  been  a  hot 
one,  and  it  had  burned  away  most  of  the  limbs, 
and  had  so  thoroughly  boiled  the  pitch  through 
the  exterior  of  the  trunk  that  the  wood  was  in 
an  excellent  state  of  preservation. 


A   YELLOW    PINE,   FORTY-SEVEN   YEARS   AFTER   IT 
HAD   BEEN   KILLED   BY   FIRE 


fovtet  Jtt* 

Another  old  burn  visited  was  a  small  one  in  an 
Engelmann  spruce  forest  on  a  moderate  north- 
ern slope.  It  had  been  stopped  while  burning 
in  very  inflammable  timber.  It  is  probable  that 
on  this  occasion  either  a  rain  or  snow  had  saved 
the  surrounding  forest.  The  regrowth  had 
slowly  extended  from  the  margin  of  the  forest 
to  the  centre  of  the  burn  until  it  was  restocked. 

One  morning  I  noticed  two  small  fires  a  few 
miles  down  the  mountain  and  went  to  examine 
them.  Both  were  two  days  old,  and  both  had 
started  from  unextinguished  camp-fires.  One 
had  burned  over  about  an  acre  and  the  other 
about  four  times  that  area.  If  the  smaller  had 
not  been  built  against  an  old  snag  it  probably 
would  have  gone  out  within  a  few  hours  after  the 
congressman  who  built  it  moved  camp.  It  was 
wind-sheltered  and  the  blaze  had  traveled  slowly 
in  all  directions  and  burned  a  ragged  circle  that 
was  about  sixty  feet  across. 

The  outline  of  the  other  blaze  was  that  of  a 
flattened  ellipse,  like  the  orbit  of  many  a  wander- 
ing comet  in  the  sky.  This  had  gone  before  the 
wind,  and  the  windward  end  of  its  orbit  closely 


of 


encircled  the  place  of  origin.  The  camp-fire 
nucleus  of  this  blaze  had  also  been  built  in  the 
wrong  place,  —  against  a  fallen  log  which  lay 
in  a  deep  bed  of  decaying  needles. 

Of  course  each  departing  camper  should  put 
out  his  camp-fire.  However,  a  camp-fire  built 
on  a  humus-covered  forest  floor,  or  by  a  log,  or 
against  a  dead  tree,  is  one  that  is  very  difficult 
to  extinguish.  With  the  best  of  intentions  one 
may  deluge  such  a  fire  with  water  without  de- 
stroying its  potency.  A  fire  thus  secreted  ap- 
pears, like  a  lie,  to  have  a  spark  of  immortality 
in  it. 

A  fire  should  not  be  built  in  contact  with  sub- 
stances that  will  burn,  for  such  fuel  will  prolong 
the  fire's  life  and  may  lead  it  far  into  the  forest. 
There  is  but  little  danger  to  the  forest  from  a 
fire  that  is  built  upon  rock,  earth,  sand,  or 
gravel.  A  fire  so  built  is  isolated  and  it  usually 
dies  an  early  natural  death.  Such  a  fire  —  one 
built  in  a  safe  and  sane  place  —  is  easily  ex- 
tinguished. 

The  larger  of  these  two  incipient  fires  was 
burning  quietly,  and  that  night  I  camped  within 

156 


its  orbit.  Toward  morning  the  wind  began  to 
blow,  this  slow-burning  surface  fire  began  to 
leap,  and  before  long  it  was  a  crown  fire,  tra- 
veling rapidly  among  the  tree-tops.  It  swiftly 
expanded  into  an  enormous  delta  of  flame.  At 
noon  I  looked  back  and  down  upon  it  from  a 
mountain-top,  and  it  had  advanced  about  three 
miles  into  a  primeval  forest  sea,  giving  off  more 
smoke  than  a  volcano. 

I  went  a  day's  journey  and  met  a  big  fire  that 
was  coming  aggressively  forward  against  the 
wind .  1 1  was  burning  a  crowded ,  stunted  growth 
of  forest  that  stood  in  a  deep  litter  carpet.  The 
smoke,  which  flowed  freely  from  it,  was  dis- 
tinctly ashen  green;  this  expanded  and  main- 
tained in  the  sky  a  smoky  sheet  that  was  several 
miles  in  length. 

Before  the  fire  lay  a  square  mile  or  so  of  old 
burn  which  was  covered  with  a  crowded  growth 
of  lodge-pole  pine  that  stood  in  a  deep,  criss- 
crossed entanglement  of  fallen  fire-killed  timber. 
A  thousand  or  more  of  these  long,  broken  dead 
trees  covered  each  acre  with  wreckage,  and  in 
this  stood  upward  of  five  thousand  live  young 


of 


ones.  This  would  make  an  intensely  hot  and 
flame-writhing  fire.  It  appears  that  a  veteran 
spruce  forest  had  occupied  this  burn  prior  to 
the  fire.  The  fire  had  occurred  fifty-seven  years 
before.  Trees  old  and  young  testified  to  the 
date.  In  the  margin  of  the  living  forest  on  the 
edge  of  the  burn  were  numerous  trees  that  were 
fire-scarred  fifty-seven  years  before;  the  re- 
growth  on  the  burn  was  an  even-aged  fifty-six- 
year  growth. 

That  night,  as  the  fire  neared  the  young  tree 
growth,  I  scaled  a  rock  ledge  to  watch  it.  Before 
me,  and  between  the  fire  and  the  rocks,  stood 
several  veteran  lodge-pole  pines  in  a  mass  of 
dead-and-down  timber.  Each  of  these  trees  had 
an  outline  like  that  of  a  plump  Lombardy  pop- 
lar. They  perished  in  the  most  spectacular  man- 
ner. Blazing,  wind-blown  bark  set  fire  to  the 
fallen  timber  around  their  feet;  this  fire,  to- 
gether with  the  close,  oncoming  fire-front,  so 
heated  the  needles  on  the  lodge-poles  that  they 
gave  off  a  smoky  gas  ;  this  was  issuing  from  every 
top  when  a  rippling  rill  of  purplish  flame  ran  up 
one  of  the  trunks.  Instantly  there  was  a  flash 

158 


and  white  flames  flared  upward  more  than  one 
hundred  feet,  stood  gushing  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  went  out  completely.  The  other  trees 
in  close  succession  followed  and  flashed  up  like 
giant  geysers  discharging  flame.  This  discharge 
was  brief,  but  it  was  followed  by  every  needle 
on  the  trees  glowing  and  changing  to  white  in- 
candescence, then  vanishing.  In  a  minute  these 
leafless  lodge-poles  were  black  and  dead. 

The  fire-front  struck  and  crossed  the  lodge- 
pole  thicket  in  a  flash ;  each  tree  flared  up  like  a 
fountain  of  gas  and  in  a  moment  a  deep,  ragged- 
edged  lake  of  flame  heaved  high  into  the  dark, 
indifferent  night.  A  general  fire  of  the  dead- 
and-down  timber  followed,  and  the  smelter  heat 
of  this  cut  the  green  trees  down,  the  flames 
widely,  splendidly  illuminating  the  surrounding 
mountains  and  changing  a  cloud-filled  sky  to 
convulsed,  burning  lava. 

Not  a  tree  was  left  standing,  and  every  log 
went  to  ashes.  The  burn  was  as  completely 
cleared  as  a  fireswept  prairie;  in  places  there 
were  holes  in  the  earth  where  tree-roots  had 
burned  out.  This  burn  was  an  ideal  place  for 

159 


of 


another  lodge-pole  growth,  and  three  years 
later  these  pines  were  growing  thereon  as  thick 
as  wheat  in  a  field.  In  a  boggy  area  within  the 
burn  an  acre  or  two  of  aspen  sprang  up;  this 
area,  however,  was  much  smaller  than  the  one 
that  the  fire  removed  from  the  bog.  Aspens 
commonly  hold  territory  and  extend  their  hold- 
ings by  sprouting  from  roots;  but  over  the 
greater  portion  of  the  bog  the  fire  had  either 
baked  or  burned  the  roots,  and  this  small  aspen 
area  marked  the  wetter  part  of  the  bog,  that  in 
which  the  roots  had  survived. 

After  destroying  the  lodge-pole  growth  the 
fire  passed  on,  and  the  following  day  it  burned 
away  as  a  quiet  surface  fire  through  a  forest  of 
scattered  trees.  It  crept  slowly  forward,  with 
a  yellow  blaze  only  a  few  inches  high.  Here  and 
there  this  reddened  over  a  pile  of  cone-scales 
that  had  been  left  by  a  squirrel,  or  blazed  up  in 
a  pile  of  broken  limbs  or  a  fallen  tree-top  ;  it  con- 
sumed the  litter  mulch  and  fertility  of  the  for- 
est floor,  but  seriously  burned  only  a  few  trees. 

Advancing  along  the  blaze,  I  came  upon  a 
veteran  yellow  pine  that  had  received  a  large 

1  60 


pot-hole  burn  in  its  instep.  As  the  Western  yel- 
low pine  is  the  best  fire-fighter  in  the  conifer 
family,  it  was  puzzling  to  account  for  this  deep 
burn.  On  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  to  be  found 
many  picturesque  yellow  pines  that  have  a 
dozen  times  triumphed  over  the  greatest  enemy 
of  the  forest.  Once  past  youth,  these  trees  pos- 
sess a  thick,  corky,  asbestos-like  bark  that  de- 
fies the  average  fire.  Close  to  this  injured  old 
fellow  was  a  rock  ledge  that  formed  an  influen- 
tial part  of  its  environment;  its  sloping  surface 
shed  water  and  fertility  upon  its  feet;  cones, 
twigs,  and  trash  had  also  slid  down  this  and 
formed  an  inflammable  pile  which,  in  burning, 
had  bored  into  its  ankle.  An  examination  of  its 
annual  rings  in  the  burned  hole  revealed  the 
fact  that  it  too  had  been  slightly  burned  fifty- 
seven  years  before.  How  long  would  it  be  until 
it  was  again  injured  by  fire  or  until  some  one 
again  read  its  records? 

Until  recently  a  forest  fire  continued  until 
stopped  by  rain  or  snow,  or  until  it  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  forest.  I  have  notes  on  a  forest  fire 
that  lived  a  fluctuating  life  of  four  months.  Once 

161 


of 


a  fire  invades  an  old  forest,  it  is  impossible 
speedily  to  get  rid  of  it.  "It  never  goes  out," 
declared  an  old  trapper.  The  fire  will  crawl  into 
a  slow-burning  log,  burrow  down  into  a  root, 
or  eat  its  way  beneath  a  bed  of  needles,  and  give 
off  no  sign  of  its  presence.  In  places  such  as 
these  it  will  hibernate  for  weeks,  despite  rain 
or  snow,  and  finally  some  day  come  forth  as 
ferocious  as  ever. 

About  twenty-four  hours  after  the  lodge-pole 
blaze  a  snow-storm  came  to  extinguish  the  sur- 
face fire.  Two  feet  of  snow  —  more  than  three 
inches  of  water  —  fell.  During  the  storm  I  was 
comfortable  beneath  a  shelving  rock,  with  a 
fire  in  front;  here  I  had  a  meal  of  wild  rasp- 
berries and  pine-nuts  and  reflected  concerning 
the  uses  of  forests,  and  wished  that  every  one 
might  better  understand  and  feel  the  injustice 
and  the  enormous  loss  caused  by  forest  fires. 

During  the  last  fifty  years  the  majority  of 
the  Western  forest  fires  have  been  set  by  unex- 
tinguished  camp-fires,  while  the  majority  of  the 
others  were  the  result  of  some  human  careless- 
ness. The  number  of  preventable  forest  fires 

162 


fwet  5 it* 


is  but  little  less  than  the  total  number.  True, 
lightning  does  occasionally  set  a  forest  on  fire; 
I  have  personal  knowledge  of  a  number  of  such 
fires,  but  I  have  never  known  lightning  to  set 
fire  to  a  green  tree.  Remove  the  tall  dead  trees 
from  forests,  and  the  lightning  will  lose  the 
greater  part  of  its  kindling. 

In  forest  protection,  the  rivers,  ridge- tops, 
rocky  gulches,  rock-fields,  lake-shores,  meadows, 
and  other  natural  fire-resisting  boundary  lines 
between  forests  are  beginning  to  be  used  and 
can  be  more  fully  utilized  for  fire-lines,  fire- 
fighting,  and  fire-defying  places.  These  natural 
fire-barriers  may  be  connected  by  barren  cleared 
lanes  through  the  forest,  so  that  a  fire-break 
will  isolate  or  run  entirely  around  any  natural 
division  of  forest.  With  such  a  barrier  a  fire 
could  be  kept  within  a  given  section  or  shut  out 
of  it. 

In  order  to  fight  fire  in  a  forest  it  must  be 
made  accessible  by  means  of  roads  and  trails; 
these  should  run  on  or  alongside  the  fire-barrier 
so  as  to  facilitate  the  movements  of  fire  patrols 
or  fire- fighters.  There  should  be  with  every  for- 

163 


of 


est  an  organized  force  of  men  who  are  eternally 
vigilant  to  prevent  or  to  fight  forest  fires.  Fires 
should  be  fought  while  young  and  small,  before 
they  are  beyond  control. 

There  should  be  crows'  -nests  on  commanding 
crags  and  in  each  of  these  should  be  a  lookout 
to  watch  constantly  for  starting  fires  or  suspi- 
cious smoke  in  the  surrounding  sea  of  forest. 
The  lookout  should  have  telephonic  connection 
with  rangers  down  the  slopes.  In  our  national 
forests  incidents  like  the  following  are  beginning 
to  occur:  Upon  a  summit  is  stationed  a  ranger 
who  has  two  hundred  thousand  acres  of  forest 
to  patrol  with  his  eyes.  One  morning  a  smudgy 
spot  appears  upon  the  purple  forest  sea  about 
fifteen  miles  to  the  northwest.  The  lookout 
gazes  for  a  moment  through  his  glass  and, 
although  not  certain  as  to  what  it  is,  decides  to 
get  the  distance  with  the  range-finder.  At  that 
instant,  however,  the  wind  acts  upon  the 
smudge  and  shows  that  a  fire  exists  and  reveals 
its  position.  A  ranger,  through  a  telephone  at 
the  forks  of  the  trail  below,  hears  from  the 
heights,  "Small  fire  one  mile  south  of  Mirror 

164 


Lake,  between  Spruce  Fork  and  Bear  Pass 
Trail,  close  to  O'Brien's  Spring."  In  less  than 
an  hour  a  ranger  leaps  from  his  panting  pony 
and  with  shovel  and  axe  hastily  digs  a  narrow 
trench  through  the  vegetable  mould  in  a  circle 
around  the  fire.  Then  a  few  shovelfuls  of  sand 
go  upon  the  liveliest  blaze  and  the  fire  is  under 
control.  As  soon  as  there  lives  a  good,  sympa- 
thetic public  sentiment  concerning  the  forest, 
it  will  be  comparatively  easy  to  prevent  most 
forest  fires  from  starting  and  to  extinguish  those 
that  do  start. 

With  the  snow  over,  I  started  for  the  scene  of 
the  first  fire,  and  on  the  way  noticed  how  much 
more  rapidly  the  snow  melted  in  the  open  than 
in  a  forest.  The  autumn  sun  was  warm,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  first  day  most  of  the  snow  in  open 
or  fireswept  places  was  gone,  though  on  the 
forest  floor  the  slushy,  compacted  snow  still 
retained  the  greater  portion  of  its  original  mois- 
ture. On  the  flame-cleared  slopes  there  was 
heavy  erosion;  the  fire  had  destroyed  the  root- 
anchorage  of  the  surface  and  consumed  the 
trash  that  would  ordinarily  have  absorbed  and 

165 


of 


delayed  the  water  running  off;  but  this,  un- 
checked, had  carried  off  with  it  tons  of  earthy 
material.  One  slope  on  the  first  burn  suffered 
heavily;  a  part  of  this  day's  "wash"  was  de- 
posited in  a  beaver  pond,  of  half  an  acre,  which 
was  filled  to  the  depth  of  three  feet.  The  beav- 
ers, finding  their  subterranean  exits  filled  with 
wash,  had  escaped  by  tearing  a  hole  in  the  top 
of  their  house. 

Leaving  this  place,  I  walked  across  the  range 
to  look  at  a  fire  that  was  burning  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  snowfall.  It  was  in  a  heavily  for- 
ested cove  and  was  rapidly  undoing  the  con- 
structive work  of  centuries.  This  cove  was  a 
horseshoe-shaped  one  and  apparently  would 
hold  the  fire  within  its  rocky  ridges.  While  fol- 
lowing along  one  of  these  ridges,  I  came  to  a 
narrow,  tree-dotted  pass,  the  only  break  in  the 
confining  rocky  barrier.  As  I  looked  at  the  fire 
down  in  the  cove,  it  was  plain  that  with  a  high 
wind  the  fire  would  storm  this  pass  and  break 
into  a  heavily  forested  alpine  realm  beyond.  In 
one  day  two  men  with  axes  could  have  made 
this  pass  impregnable  to  the  assaults  of  any  fire, 

166 


no  matter  how  swift  the  wind  ally;  but  men  were 
not  then  defending  our  forests  and  an  ill  wind 
was  blowing. 

Many  factors  help  to  determine  the  speed  of 
these  fires,  and  a  number  of  observations  showed 
that  under  average  conditions  a  fire  burned 
down  a  slope  at  about  one  mile  an  hour;  on  the 
level  it  traveled  from  two  to  eight  miles  an  hour, 
while  up  a  slope  it  made  from  eight  to  twelve. 
For  short  distances  fires  occasionally  roared 
along  at  a  speed  of  fifty  or  sixty  miles  an  hour 
and  made  a  terrible  gale  of  flames. 

I  hurried  up  into  the  alpine  realm  and  after 
half  an  hour  scaled  a  promontory  and  looked 
back  to  the  pass.  A  great  cloud  of  smoke  was 
streaming  up  just  beyond  and  after  a  minute 
tattered  sheets  of  flame  were  shooting  high 
above  it.  Presently  a  tornado  of  smoke  and 
flame  surged  into  the  pass  and  for  some  seconds 
nothing  could  be  seen.  As  this  cleared,  a  suc- 
cession of  tongues  and  sheets  of  flame  tried  to 
reach  over  into  the  forest  on  the  other  side  of 
the  pass,  but  finally  gave  it  up.  Just  as  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  the  forest  around  me  was 

167 


of 


safe,  a  smoke-column  arose  among  the  trees  by 
the  pass.  Probably  during  the  first  assault  of 
the  flames  a  fiery  dart  had  been  hurled  across  the 
pass. 

Up  the  shallow  forested  valley  below  me  came 
the  flames,  an  inverted  Niagara  of  red  and  yel- 
low, with  flying  spray  of  black.  It  sent  forward 
a  succession  of  short-lived  whirlwinds  that  went 
to  pieces  explosively,  hurling  sparks  and  blaz- 
ing bark  far  and  high.  During  one  of  its  wilder 
displays  the  fire  rolled  forward,  an  enormous 
horizontal  whirl  of  flame,  and  then,  with  thun- 
der and  roar,  the  molten  flames  swept  upward 
into  a  wall  of  fire;  this  tore  to  pieces,  collapsed, 
and  fell  forward  in  fiery  disappearing  clouds. 
With  amazing  quickness  the  splendid  hanging 
garden  on  the  terraced  heights  was  crushed  and 
blackened.  By  my  promontory  went  this  mag- 
nificent zigzag  surging  front  of  flame,  blowing 
the  heavens  full  of  sparks  and  smoke  and  fling- 
ing enormous  fiery  rockets.  Swift  and  slow, 
loud  and  low,  swelling  and  vanishing,  it  sang  its 
eloquent  death  song. 

A  heavy  stratum  of  tarlike  smoke  formed 
168 


fouet 


above  the  fire  as  it  toned  down.  Presently  this 
black  stratum  was  uplifted  near  the  centre  and 
then  pierced  with  a  stupendous  geyser  of  yellow 
flame,  which  reddened  as  it  fused  and  tore 
through  the  tarry  smoke  and  then  gushed  as- 
tonishingly high  above. 

A  year  or  two  prior  to  the  fire  a  snow  slide 
from  the  heights  had  smashed  down  into  the 
forest.  More  than  ten  thousand  trees  were 
mowed,  raked,  and  piled  in  one  mountainous 
mass  of  wreckage  upon  some  crags  and  in  a  nar- 
row-throated gulch  between  them.  This  wood- 
pile made  the  geyser  flames  and  a  bonfire  to 
startle  even  the  giants.  While  I  was  trying  to 
account  for  this  extraordinary  display,  there 
came  a  series  of  explosions  in  rapid  succession, 
ending  in  a  violent  crashing  one.  An  ominous, 
elemental  silence  followed.  All  alone  I  had  en- 
joyed the  surprises,  the  threatening  uncertain- 
ties, and  the  dangerous  experiences  that  swiftly 
came  with  the  fire-line  battles  of  this  long, 
smoky  war;  but  when  those  awful  explosions 
came  I  for  a  time  wished  that  some  one  were 
with  me.  Had  there  been,  I  should  have  turned 

169 


of 


and  asked,  while  getting  a  better  grip  on  my 
nerves,  "What  on  earth  is  that?"  While  the 
startled  mountain-walls  were  still  shuddering 
with  the  shock,  an  enormous  agitated  column 
of  steam  shot  several  hundred  feet  upward 
where  the  fiery  geyser  had  flamed.  Unable  to 
account  for  these  strange  demonstrations,  I 
early  made  my  way  through  heat  and  smoke  to 
the  big  bonfire.  In  the  bottom  of  the  gulch,  be- 
neath the  bonfire,  flowed  a  small  stream;  just 
above  the  bonfire  this  stream  had  been  tempo- 
rarily dammed  by  fire  wreckage.  On  being  re- 
leased, the  accumulated  waters  thus  gathered 
had  rushed  down  upon  the  red-hot  rocks  and 
cliffs  and  produced  these  explosions. 

In  the  morning  light  this  hanging  terraced 
garden  of  yesterday's  forest  glory  was  a  stupen- 
dous charcoal  drawing  of  desolation. 


n 


E  big  trees  of  California  are  never  attacked 
by  insects.  This  immunity  is  extraordin- 
ary and  may  be  the  chief  characteristic  that 
enables  these  noble  trees  to  live  so  long.  Un- 
fortunately it  is  not  shared  by  other  species. 
The  American  forests  are  infested  with  thou- 
sands of  species  of  injurious  and  destructive  in- 
sects. These  insects,  like  the  forest  fires,  annu- 
ally kill  numerous  forest  areas,  and  in  addition 
leave  millions  of  deformed  and  sickly  trees  scat- 
tered through  the  living  forest  to  impair  and 
imperil  it.  After  some  general  tree  studies 
which  have  occupied  odd  times  for  years  and 
extended  through  the  groves  and  forests  of 
every  State  and  Territory  in  the  Union,  the  con- 
clusion has  been  forced  upon  me  that  the  forests 
are  more  widely  wasted  by  insects  than  by  fire. 
Some  of  Nature's  strange  ways  are  exhibited 
in  the  interrelation  of  insects  and  fires  in  tree- 
killing.  It  is  common  for  the  attack  of  one  of 


£p*Cl  of  tf  e 

these  tree-enemies  to  open  the  way  for  the  de- 
predations of  the  other.  The  trees  that  insects 
kill  quickly  become  dry  and  inflammable  and 
ready  kindling  for  the  forest  fire.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  injuries  that  green  trees  often  receive 
from  forest  fires  render  them  most  susceptible  to 
the  attacks  of  insects. 

This  interrelation  —  almost  cooperation  — 
between  these  arch-enemies  of  the  forest  was 
impressed  upon  me  during  my  early  tree  stud- 
ies. One  day  I  enjoyed  a  splendid  forest  sea 
from  the  summit  of  a  granite  crag  that  pierced 
this  purple  expanse.  Near  the  crag  a  few  clumps 
of  trees  stood  out  conspicuous  in  robes  of  sear 
yellow  brown.  Unable  to  account  for  this  color- 
ing of  their  needles,  I  went  down  and  looked 
them  over.  The  trees  had  recently  been  killed 
by  insects.  They  were  Western  yellow  pine, 
and  their  needles,  changed  to  greenish  yellow, 
still  clung  to  them.  In  each  clump  of  these  pines 
there  were  several  stunted  or  deformed  trees, 
or  trees  that  showed  a  recent  injury.  The 
stunted  and  injured  trees  in  these  clumps  were 
attacked  and  killed  by  beetles  the  summer  be- 

i74 


in 

fore  my  visit.  In  these  injured  trees  the  beetles 
had  multiplied,  and  they  emerged  the  following 
summer  and  made  a  deadly  attack  upon  the  sur- 
rounding vigorous  trees.  Although  this  latter 
attack  was  made  only  a  month  or  two  before 
my  arrival,  the  trees  were  already  dead  and 
their  needles  had  changed  to  a  sickly  greenish 
yellow.  Amid  one  of  these  clumps  was  a  veteran 
yellow  pine  that  lightning  had  injured  a  few 
years  before.  Beetles  attacked  and  killed  this 
old  pine  about  a  year  before  I  appeared  upon 
the  scene.  It  was  the  only  tree  in  this  now  dead 
clump  that  was  attacked  on  that  first  occasion; 
but  some  weeks  before  my  visit  the  beetles  in 
multiplied  numbers  swarmed  forth  from  it  and 
speedily  killed  the  sound  neighboring  trees. 

These  conclusions  were  gathered  from  the 
condition  of  the  trees  themselves  together  with 
a  knowledge  of  beetle  habits.  Not  a  beetle  could 
be  found  in  the  lightning-injured  pine,  and  its 
needles  were  dry  and  yellow.  The  near-by  dead 
pines  were  full  of  beetles  and  their  eggs;  the 
needles,  of  a  greenish  yellow,  were  slightly  tough 
and  still  contained  a  little  sap. 


gfdt  of  tfy 

While  I  was  in  camp  one  evening,  in  the  midst 
of  these  tree  studies,  the  veteran  pine,  now  dead, 
was  again  struck  by  lightning.  As  everything 
was  drenched  with  rain,  there  appeared  to  be  no 
likelihood  of  fire.  However,  the  following  morn- 
ing the  old  pine  was  ablaze.  In  extinguishing 
the  fire  I  found  that  it  had  started  at  the  base  of 
the  tree  at  a  point  where  the  bolt  had  descended 
and  entered  the  earth.  At  this  place  there  was 
an  accumulation  of  bark-bits  from  the  trunk, 
together  with  fallen  twigs  and  needles  from  the 
dead  tree-top.  Thus  a  dead,  inflammable  tree 
in  the  woods  is  kindling  which  at  any  moment 
may  become  a  torch  and  set  fire  to  the  surround- 
ing green  forest.  Although  fires  frequently 
sweep  through  and  destroy  a  green  forest,  they 
commonly  have  their  start  among  dead  trees  or 
trash. 

The  pine  beetle  just  mentioned  attacks  and 
burrows  into  trees  for  the  purpose  of  laying  its 
eggs  therein.  When  few  in  number  they  confine 
their  attacks  to  trees  of  low  vitality,  —  those 
that  will  easily  succumb  to  their  attack.  The 
speedy  death  of  the  tree  and  the  resultant  chem- 

176 


n 

ical  change  in  its  sap  "appear  to  be  necessary 
for  the  well-being  of  the  deposited  eggs  or  the 
youngsters  that  emerge  from  them.  When  these 
beetles  are  numerous  they  freely  attack  and 
easily  kill  the  most  vigorous  of  trees. 

The  pine  beetle  is  one  of  a  dozen  species  of 
bark  beetles  that  are  grouped  under  a  name  that 
means  "killer  of  trees."  Each  year  they  kill 
many  acres  of  forest,  and  almost  every  year 
some  one  depredation  extends  over  several  thou- 
sand acres.  The  way  of  each  species  is  similar 
to  that  of  the  others.  The  beetles  of  each  species 
vary  in  length  from  a  tenth  to  a  fifth  of  an 
inch.  They  migrate  in  midsummer,  at  the  time 
of  the  principal  attack.  Swarming  over  the  tree, 
they  at  once  bore  into  and  through  the  bark. 
Here  short  transverse  or  vertical  galleries  are 
run,  and  in  these  the  eggs  are  laid. 

In  a  short  time  the  eggs  hatch  into  grubs,  and 
these  at  once  start  to  feed  upon  the  inner  bark 
at  right  angles  to  the  galleries,  extending  to 
right  and  left  around  the  tree.  It  does  not  re- 
quire many  of  them  to  girdle  the  tree.  Com- 
monly the  tree  is  dead  in  two  months  or  less. 

177 


of  tfc 


All  these  little  animals  remain  in  the  tree  until 
late  spring  or  early  summer,  when  they  emerge 
in  multiplied  swarms  and  repeat  the  deadly 
work  in  other  trees. 

The  depredations  of  these  insects  are  enor- 
mous. During  the  early  eighties  the  Southern 
pine  beetle  ruined  several  thousand  acres  of 
pines  in  Texas.  Ten  years  later,  1890-92,  it 
swarmed  through  western  North  Carolina,  Vir- 
ginia, and  West  Virginia  to  southern  Pennsyl- 
vania and  over  an  area  aggregating  seventy-five 
thousand  square  miles,  and  killed  pines  of  all 
species  and  ages,  leaving  but  few  alive.  Within 
the  past  few  years  the  mountain  and  Western 
pine  beetles  have  ruined  a  one-hundred-thou- 
sand-acre lodge-pole  pine  tract  in  northeastern 
Oregon,  destroying  not  less  than  ninety  per  cent 
of  the  stand.  During  the  past  decade  the  Black 
Hills  beetle  has  been  active  over  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  where  in  some  districts  it  has  de- 
stroyed from  ten  to  eighty  per  cent  of  the  West- 
ern yellow  pines.  In  the  Black  Hills  the  forests 
over  several  thousand  square  miles  are  ruined. 

These  bug-killed  trees  deteriorate  rapidly.  In 
178 


n 

most  cases  a  beetle-killed  pine  is  pretty  well 
rotted  in  five  years  and  usually  falls  to  pieces  in 
less  than  a  decade.  Borers  attack  upon  the  heels 
of  the  beetles,  and  the  holes  made  by  the  beetles 
admit  water  and  fungi  into  the  wood.  This  rap- 
idly reduces  the  wood  to  a  punky,  rotten  mass. 

One  day  in  Colorado  I  tore  a  number  of  wind- 
wrecked,  bug-killed  trees  to  pieces  and  was 
busily  engaged  examining  the  numerous  popula- 
tion of  grubs  and  borers,  when  some  robins  and 
other  birds  discovered  the  feast,  collected,  and 
impatiently  awaited  their  turn.  Perceiving  the 
situation,  I  dragged  a  fragment  of  a  log  to  one 
side  for  examination  while  the  birds  assembled 
to  banquet  and  dispute. 

Returning  to  the  rotten  logs  for  another  grub- 
filled  fragment,  I  paused  to  watch  some  wasps 
that,  like  the  birds,  were  feasting  upon  these 
grubs.  A  wasp  on  finding  a  grub  simply  thrust 
his  snout  into  the  grub  and  then  braced  himself 
firmly  as  he  bored  down  and  proceeded  to  suck 
his  victim's  fluids.  In  throwing  a  log  to  one  side 
I  disturbed  a  bevy  of  slender  banqueters  that 
I  had  not  seen.  Instantly  a  number  of  wasps 

179 


of 


were  effervescing  round  my  head.  Despite  busy 
arms,  they  effectively  peppered  my  face,  and  I 
fled  to  a  neighboring  brook  to  bathe  my  wounds. 
While  I  was  at  a  safe  distance,  cogitating  as 
to  the  wisdom  of  returning  for  further  examin- 
ation of  the  logs,  a  black  bear  appeared  down 
the  opening.  From  his  actions  I  realized  that  he 
had  scented  not  myself  but  the  feast  in  the  log- 
pile.  After  sniffling,  pointing,  and  tip-toeing,  he 
lumbered  toward  the  logs.  Of  course  I  was  curi- 
ous as  to  the  manner  of  his  reception  and  al- 
lowed him  to  go  unwarned  to  the  feast.  Two 
Rocky  Mountain  jays  gave  a  low,  indifferent 
call  on  his  approach,  but  the  other  birds  ignored 
his  coming.  With  his  fore  paw  he  tore  a  log 
apart  and  deftly  picked  up  a  number  of  grubs. 
All  went  well  until  he  climbed  upon  the  pile  of 
wreckage  and  rolled  a  broken  log  off  the  top. 
This  disturbed  another  wasp  feast.  Suddenly 
he  grabbed  his  nose  with  both  fore  paws  and 
tumbled  off  the  pile.  For  a  few  seconds  he  was 
slapping  and  battling  at  a  lively  pace;  then, 
with  a  woof-f-f-f!  he  fled  —  straight  at  me.  I 

made  a  tangential  move. 

180 


n 

The  hardwoods  are  also  warred  upon  by  bugs, 
weevils,  borers,  and  fungi.  The  percentage  of 
swift  deaths,  however,  that  the  insects  cause 
among  the  hardwoods  is  much  smaller  than 
that  among  the  pines ;  but  the  percentage  of 
diseased  and  slow-dying  hardwoods  is  much 
greater.  The  methods  of  beetles  that  attack 
oaks,  hickories,  aspens,  and  birches  are  simi- 
lar to  the  methods  of  those  that  attack  pines 
and  spruces.  They  attack  in  swarms,  bore 
through  the  bark,  and  deposit  their  eggs  either 
in  the  inner  bark  or  in  the  cambium,  —  the 
vitals  of  the  tree.  The  grubs,  on  hatching,  begin 
to  feed  upon  the  tree's  vitals.  In  this  feeding 
each  grub  commonly  drives  a  minute  tunnel 
from  one  to  several  inches  in  length.  Where 
scores  of  grubs  hatch  side  by  side  they  drive  a 
score  of  closely  parallel  tunnels.  Commonly 
these  are  either  horizontal  or  vertical  and  gener- 
ally they  are  numerous  enough  to  make  many 
complete  girdles  around  the  tree.  Girdling 
means  cutting  off  the  circulation,  and  this  pro- 
duces quick  death. 

While  these  beetles  are  busy  killing  unnum- 
181 


of 


bered  millions  of  trees  annually,  the  various 
species  of  another  group  of  beetles  known  as 
weevils  are  active  in  deforming  and  injuring 
even  a  greater  number.  They  mutilate  and 
deform  trees  by  the  millions.  The  work  of  the 
white-pine  weevil  is  particularly  devilish.  It 
deposits  its  eggs  in  the  vigorous  shoots  of  the 
white-pine  sapling.  The  eggs  hatch,  and  the 
grubs  feed  upon  and  kill  the  shoot.  Another 
shoot  bursts  forth  to  take  the  place  of  the  one 
killed;  this  is  attacked  and  either  killed  or  in- 
jured. The  result  is  a  stunted,  crooked,  and 
much-forked  tree. 

Borers  attack  trees  both  old  and  young  of 
many  species,  and  a  few  of  these  species  with 
wholesale  deadly  effect.  Birches  by  the  million 
annually  fall  a  prey  to  these  tree-tunnelers,  and 
their  deadly  work  has  almost  wiped  the  black 
locust  out  of  existence.  Borers  pierce  and  hon- 
eycomb the  tree-  trunk.  If  their  work  is  not 
fatal,  it  is  speedily  extended  and  made  so  by  the 
fungi  and  rot  that  its  holes  admit  into  the  tree. 

Trees,  like  people,  often  entertain  a  number 
of  troubles  at  once  and  have  misfortunes  in 

182 


n 

series.  A  seedling  injured  by  one  insect  is  more 
likely  to  be  attacked  again,  and  by  some  other 
insect,  than  is  the  sound  seedling  by  its  side. 
Let  a  seedling  be  injured,  and  relays  of  insects 
—  often  several  species  at  a  time  and  each  spe- 
cies with  a  way  of  its  own  —  will  attack  it 
through  the  seedling,  sapling,  pole,  tree,  and 
veteran  stages  of  its  growth  until  it  succumbs. 
Or  let  a  vigorous  tree  meet  with  an  accident, 
and  like  an  injured  deer  it  becomes  food  for  an 
enemy.  If  lightning,  wind,  or  sleet  split  the 
bark  or  break  a  limb,  through  these  wounds 
some  spore  or  borer  will  speedily  reach  the  tree's 
vitals.  In  many  cases  the  deadly  work  of  para- 
sitic plants  and  fungi  is  interrelated  with,  and 
almost  inseparable  from,  the  destructive  opera- 
tions of  predacious  insects.  Many  so-called  tree 
diseases  are  but  the  spread  of  rot  and  fungi 
through  the  wood  by  means  of  an  entrance 
bored  by  a  borer,  weevil,  or  beetle. 

The  bark  of  a  tree,  like  the  skin  on  one's  body, 
is  an  impervious,  elastic  armor  that  protects 
blood  and  tissues  from  the  poisonous  or  cor- 
rupting touch  or  seizure  of  thousands  of  deadly 

183 


€#e  £ptf  f  of 


and  incessantly  clamoring  germs.  Tear  the  skin 
on  one's  body  or  the  bark  upon  a  tree,  and  eter- 
nally vigilant  microbes  at  once  sow  the  wound 
with  the  seeds  of  destruction  or  decay.  A  single 
thoughtless  stroke  of  an  axe  in  the  bark  of  a  tree 
may  admit  germs  that  will  produce  a  kind  of 
blood-poisoning  and  cause  slow  death. 

The  false-tinder  fungus  apparently  can  spread 
and  do  damage  only  as  it  is  admitted  into  the 
tree  through  insect-holes  or  the  wounds  of  acci- 
dents. Yet  its  annual  damage  is  almost  beyond 
computation.  This  rot  is  widely  distributed  and 
affects  a  large  number  of  species.  As  with  in- 
sects, its  outbreaks  often  occur  and  extend  over 
wide  areas  upon  which  its  depredations  are 
almost  complete.  As  almost  all  trees  are  sus- 
ceptible to  this  punk-producer,  it  will  not  be 
easy  to  suppress. 

The  study  of  forest  insects  has  not  progressed 
far  enough  to  enable  one  to  make  more  than  a 
rough  approximation  of  the  number  of  the  im- 
portant species  that  attack  our  common  trees. 
However,  more  than  five  hundred  species  are 
known  to  afflict  the  sturdy  oak,  while  four  hun- 

184 


n 

dred  prey  upon  the  bending  willow.  The  birches 
supply  food  to  about  three  hundred  of  these 
predacious  fellows,  while  poplars  feed  and  shel- 
ter almost  as  many.  The  pines  and  spruces  are 
compelled  permanently  to  pension  or  provide 
for  about  three  hundred  families  of  sucking, 
chewing  parasites. 

The  recent  ravages  of  the  chestnut-tree  blight 
and  the  appalling  depredations  of  the  gypsy 
and  brown-tailed  moths,  together  with  other 
evils,  suggest  at  once  the  bigness  of  these  pro- 
blems and  the  importance  of  their  study  and 
solution.  The  insect  army  is  as  innumerable  as 
the  leaves  in  the  forest.  This  army  occupies 
points  of  vantage  in  every  part  of  the  tree  zone, 
has  an  insatiable  appetite,  is  eternally  vigilant 
for  invasion,  and  is  eager  to  multiply.  It  main- 
tains incessant  warfare  against  the  forest,  and 
every  tree  that  matures  must  run  a  gantlet  of 
enemies  in  series,  each  species  of  which  is  armed 
with  weapons  long  specialized  for  the  tree's  de- 
struction. Some  trees  escape  unscarred,  though 
countless  numbers  are  killed  and  multitudes 
maimed,  which  for  a  time  live  almost  useless 

185 


of  tfe  (Bocfites 

lives,  ever  ready  to  spread  insects  and  disease 
among  the  healthy  trees. 

Every  part  of  the  tree  suffers;  even  its  roots 
are  cut  to  pieces  and  consumed.  Caterpillars, 
grubs,  and  beetles  specialize  on  defoliation  and 
feed  upon  the  leaves,  the  lungs  of  the  trees.  The 
partial  defoliation  of  the  tree  is  devitalizing,  and 
the  loss  of  all  its  leaves  commonly  kills  it.  Not 
only  is  the  tree  itself  attacked  but  also  its  efforts 
toward  reproduction.  The  dainty  bloom  is  food 
for  a  number  of  insect  beasts,  while  the  seed  is 
fed  upon  and  made  an  egg-depository  by  other 
enemies.  Weevils,  blight,  gall,  ants,  aphids, 
and  lice  prey  upon  it.  The  seed  drops  upon  the 
earth  into  another  army  that  is  hungry  and  wait- 
ing to  devour  it.  The  moment  it  sprouts  it  is 
gnawed,  stung,  bitten,  and  bored  by  ever-active 
fiends. 

Many  forest  trees  are  scarred  in  the  base  by 
ground  fires.  These  trees  are  entered  by  insects 
through  the  scars  and  become  sources  of  rot  and 
insect  infection.  Although  these  trees  may  for  a 
time  live  on,  it  is  with  a  rotten  heart  or  as  a  mere 
hollow  shell.  A  forest  fire  that  sweeps  raging 

186 


n 

through  the  tree- tops  has  a  very  different  effect: 
the  twigs  and  bark  are  burned  off  and  the 
pitches  are  boiled  through  the  exterior  of  the 
trunk  and  the  wood  fortified  against  all  sources 
of  decay.  This  preservative  treatment  often 
gives  long  endurance  to  fire-killed  timber,  espe- 
cially when  the  trees  killed  are  yellow  pine  or 
Douglas  spruce.  Many  a  night  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  my  eager,  blazing  camp-fire  was 
burning  timber  that  forest  fires  had  killed  forty 
and  even  sixty  years  before. 

In  forest  protection  and  improvement  the 
insect  factor  is  one  that  will  not  easily  down. 
Controlling  the  depredations  of  beetles,  borers, 
weevils,  and  fungi  calls  for  work  of  magnitude, 
but  work  that  insures  success.  This  work  con- 
sists of  the  constant  removal  of  both  the  in- 
fected trees  and  the  dwarfed  or  injured  ones  that 
are  susceptible  to  infection.  Most  forest  insects 
multiply  with  amazing  rapidity;  some  mother 
bark-beetles  may  have  half  a  million  descend- 
ants in  less  than  two  years.  Thus  efforts  for 
the  control  of  insect  outbreaks  should  begin  at 
once,  —  in  the  early  stages  of  their  activity.  A 

187 


of 


single  infested  tree  may  in  a  year  or  two  spread 
destruction  through  thousands  of  acres  of  forest. 

Most  insects  have  enemies  to  bite  them.  The 
ichneumon-fly  spreads  death  among  injurious 
grubs.  Efforts  to  control  forest-enemies  will 
embrace  the  giving  of  aid  and  comfort  to  those 
insects  that  prey  upon  them.  Bugs  will  be 
hunted  with  bugs.  Already  the  gypsy  moth  in 
the  East  is  being  fought  in  this  way.  Many 
species  of  birds  feed  freely  upon  weevils,  borers, 
and  beetles.  Of  these  birds,  the  woodpeckers 
are  the  most  important.  They  must  be  protected 
and  encouraged. 

There  are  other  methods  of  fighting  the  enemy. 
A  striking  and  successful  device  for  putting  an 
end  to  the  spruce-destroying  beetle  is  to  hack- 
girdle  a  spruce  here  and  there  in  the  forest  at  a 
season  when  the  physiological  make-up  of  the 
tree  will  cause  it  to  change  into  a  condition  most 
favorable  for  the  attraction  of  beetles.  Like 
carrion,  this  changed  condition  appears  to  be 
scented  from  all  quarters  and  afar.  Swarms  of 
beetles  concentrate  their  attack  upon  this  tree 
and  bury  themselves  in  it  and  deposit  their  eggs. 

188 


n 

The  multiplied  army  will  remain  in  the  tree 
until  late  spring.  Thus  months  of  time  may  be 
had  to  cut  and  burn  the  tree,  with  its  myriads 
of  murderous  guests.  The  freedom  of  the  big 
trees  from  insect  attacks  suggests  that  man  as 
well  as  nature  may  develop  or  breed  species  of 
trees  that  will  better  resist  or  even  defy  insects. 
Insects  are  now  damaging  our  forests  to  the 
extent  of  not  less  than  one  hundred  million  dol- 
lars annually.  This  we  believe  to  be  a  conserva- 
tive estimate.  Yet  these  figures  only  begin  to 
tell  the  story  of  loss.  They  tell  only  the  com- 
mercial value  of  the  timber.  The  other  greater 
and  higher  values  cannot  be  resolved  into  figures. 
Forest  influences  and  forest  scenes  add  much  to 
existence  and  bestow  blessings  upon  life  that 
cannot  be  measured  by  gold. 


©*. 


LTHOUGH  the  eagle  has  the  emblematic 
place  of  honor  in  the  United  States,  the 
downy  woodpecker  is  distinguished  as  the  most 
useful  bird  citizen.  Of  the  eight  hundred  and 
three  kinds  of  birds  in  North  America,  his  services 
are  most  helpful  to  man.  He  destroys  destruct- 
ive forest  insects.  Long  ago  Nature  selected 
the  woodpecker  to  be  the  chief  caretaker  —  the 
physician  and  surgeon  —  of  the  tree  world. 
This  is  a  stupendous  task.  Forests  are  extens- 
ive and  are  formed  of  hundreds  of  species  of 
trees.  The  American  woodpeckers  have  the 
supervision  of  uncounted  acres  that  are  forested 
with  more  than  six  hundred  kinds  of  trees. 

With  the  exception  of  the  California  big  tree, 
each  tree  species  is  preyed  upon  by  scores,  and 
many  species  by  hundreds,  of  injurious  and 
deadly  insects.  Five  hundred  kinds  of  insects 

193 


of 


are  known  to  prey  upon  the  oak,  and  a  complete 
count  may  show  a  thousand  kinds.  Many  of 
these  insects  multiply  with  amazing  rapidity, 
and  at  all  times  countless  numbers  of  these  ag- 
gressive pests  form  warrior  armies  with  which 
the  woodpecker  must  constantly  contend. 

In  this  incessant  struggle  with  insects  the 
woodpecker  has  helpful  assistance  from  many 
other  bird  families.  Though  the  woodpecker 
gives  general  attention  to  hundreds  of  kinds  of 
insects,  he  specializes  on  those  which  injure  the 
tree  internally,  —  which  require  a  surgical  oper- 
ation to  obtain.  He  is  a  distinguished  specialist; 
the  instruments  for  tree-surgery  are  intrusted  to 
his  keeping,  and  with  these  he  each  year  per- 
forms innumerable  successful  surgical  opera- 
tions upon  our  friends  the  trees. 

Woodpeckers  are  as  widely  distributed  as  for- 
ests, —  just  how  many  to  the  square  mile  no 
one  knows.  Some  localities  are  blessed  with  a 
goodly  number,  made  up  of  representatives 
from  three  or  four  of  our  twenty-four  wood- 
pecker species.  Forest,  shade,  and  orchard  trees 
receive  their  impartial  attention.  The  annual 

194 


saving  from  their  service  is  enormous.  Although 
this  cannot  be  estimated,  it  can  hardly  be  over- 
stated. 

A  single  borer  may  kill  a  tree;  so,  too,  may 
a  few  beetles;  while  a  small  number  of  weevils 
will  injure  and  stunt  a  tree  so  that  it  is  left  an 
easy  victim  for  other  insects.  Borers,  beetles, 
and  weevils  are  among  the  worst  enemies  of 
trees.  They  multiply  with  astounding  rapidity 
and  annually  kill  millions  of  scattered  trees. 
Annually,  too,  there  are  numerous  outbreaks 
of  beetles,  whose  depredations  extend  over  hun- 
dreds and  occasionally  over  thousands  of  acres. 
Caterpillars,  moths,  and  saw-flies  are  exceed- 
ingly injurious  tree-pests,  but  they  damage  the 
outer  parts  of  the  tree.  Both  they  and  their  eggs 
are  easily  accessible  to  many  kinds  of  birds, 
including  the  woodpeckers;  but  borers,  beetles, 
and  weevils  live  and  deposit  their  eggs  in  the 
very  vitals  of  the  tree.  In  the  tree's  vitals,  pro- 
tected by  a  heavy  barrier  of  wood  or  bark,  they 
are  secure  from  the  beaks  and  claws  of  all  birds 
except  Dr.  Woodpecker,  the  chief  surgeon  of 
the  forest.  About  the  only  opportunity  that 


of  $e  (goc&es 

other  birds  have  to  feed  upon  borers  and  beetles 
is  during  the  brief  time  they  occupy  in  emerging 
from  the  tree  that  they  have  killed,  in  their 
flight  to  some  live  tree,  and  during  their  brief 
exposure  while  boring  into  it. 

Beetles  live  and  move  in  swarms,  and,  accord- 
ing to  their  numbers,  concentrate  their  attack 
upon  a  single  tree  or  upon  many  trees.  Most 
beetles  are  one  of  a  dozen  species  of  Dendroc- 
tonus,  which  means  "tree-killer."  Left  in  un- 
disturbed possession  of  a  tree,  many  mother 
beetles  may  have  half  a  million  descendants 
in  a  single  season.  Fortunately  for  the  forest, 
Dr.  Woodpecker,  during  his  ceaseless  round 
of  inspection  and  service,  generally  discovers 
infested  trees.  If  one  woodpecker  is  not  equal 
to  the  situation,  many  are  concentrated  at  this 
insect-breeding  place;  and  here  they  remain 
until  the  last  dweller  in  darkness  is  reached  and 
devoured.  Thus  most  beetle  outbreaks  are  pre- 
vented. Now  and  then  all  the  conditions  are 
favorable  for  the  beetles,  or  the  woodpecker 
may  be  persecuted  and  lose  some  of  his  family; 
so  that,  despite  his  utmost  efforts,  he  fails  to 

196 


make  the  rounds  of  his  forest,  and  the  result  is 
an  outbreak  of  insects,  with  wide  depredations. 
So  important  are  these  birds  that  the  shooting 
of  a  single  one  may  allow  insects  to  multiply 
and  waste  acres  of  forest. 

During  the  periods  in  which  the  insects  are 
held  in  check  the  woodpecker  ranges  through 
the  forest,  inspecting  tree  after  tree.  Many 
times,  during  their  tireless  rounds  of  search  and 
inspection,  I  have  followed  them  for  hours.  On 
one  occasion  in  the  mountains  of  Colorado  I 
followed  a  Batchelder  woodpecker  through  a 
spruce  forest  all  day  long.  Both  of  us  had  a 
busy  day.  He  inspected  eight  hundred  and 
twenty-seven  trees,  most  of  which  were  spruce 
or  lodge-pole  pine.  Although  he  moved  quickly, 
he  was  intensely  concentrated,  was  systematic, 
and  apparently  did  the  inspection  carefully. 
The  forest  was  a  healthy  one  and  harbored  only 
straggling  insects.  Now  and  then  he  picked  up 
an  isolated  insect  from  a  limb  or  took  an  egg- 
cluster  from  a  break  in  the  bark  on  a  trunk. 
Only  two  pecking  operations  were  required.  On 
another  occasion  I  watched  a  hairy  woodpecker 

197 


of 


spend  more  than  three  days  upon  one  tree- 
trunk;  this  he  pecked  full  of  holes  and  from  its 
vitals  he  dragged  more  than  a  gross  of  devour- 
ing grubs.  In  this  case  not  only  was  the  beetle 
colony  destroyed  but  the  tree  survived. 

Woodpecker  holes  commonly  are  shallow, 
except  in  dead  trees.  Most  of  the  burrowing  or 
boring  insects  which  infest  living  trees  work  in 
the  outermost  sapwood,  just  beneath  the  bark, 
or  in  the  inner  bark.  Hence  the  doctor  does  not 
need  to  cut  deeply.  In  most  cases  his  peckings 
in  the  wood  are  so  shallow  that  no  scar  or  re- 
cord is  found.  Hence  a  tree  might  be  operated 
on  by  him  a  dozen  times  in  a  season,  and  still 
not  show  a  scar  when  split  or  sawed  into  pieces. 
Most  of  his  peckings  simply  penetrate  the  bark, 
and  on  living  trees  this  epidermis  scales  off  ;  thus 
in  a  short  time  all  traces  of  his  feast-getting  are 
obliterated.  I  have,  however,  in  dissecting  and 
studying  fallen  trees,  found  a  number  of  deep 
holes  in  their  trunks  which  woodpeckers  had 
made  years  before  the  trees  came  to  their  death. 
In  one  instance,  as  I  have  related  in  "The  Story 
of  a  Thousand-Year  Pine"  in  "Wild  Life  on  the 

198 


WOODPECKER   HOLES   IN   A   PINE   INJURED 
BY   LIGHTNING 


Rockies,"  a  deep  oblong  hole  was  pecked  in  a 
pine  nearly  eight  hundred  years  before  it  died. 
The  hole  filled  with  pitch  and  was  overgrown 
with  bark  and  wood. 

Woodpeckers  commonly  nest  in  a  dead  limb 
or  trunk,  a  number  of  feet  from  the  ground. 
Here,  in  the  heart  of  things,  they  excavate  a 
moderately  roomy  nest.  It  is  common  for  many 
woodpeckers  to  peck  out  a  deep  hole  in  a  dead 
tree  for  individual  shelter  during  the  winter. 
Generally  neither  nest  nor  winter  lodging  is  used 
longer  than  a  season.  The  abandoned  holes  are 
welcomed  as  shelters  and  nesting-places  by  many 
birds  that  prefer  wooden-walled  houses  but  can- 
not themselves  construct  them.  Chickadees 
and  bluebirds  often  nest  in  them.  Screech  owls 
frequently  philosophize  within  these  retreats. 
On  bitter  cold  nights  these  holes  shelter  and 
save  birds  of  many  species.  One  autumn  day, 
while  watching  beneath  a  pine,  I  saw  fifteen 
brown  nuthatches  issue  from  a  woodpecker's 
hole  in  a  dead  limb.  Just  what  they  were  doing 
inside  I  cannot  imagine ;  the  extraordinary  num- 
ber that  had  gathered  therein  made  the  incident 

199 


of  t$t  (Roc&es 

so  unusual  that  for  a  long  time  I  hesitated  to 
tell  it.  However,  early  one  autumn,  Mr.  Frank 
M.  Chapman  climbed  up  the  mountainside  to 
see  me,  and,  while  resting  on  the  way  up,  he 
beheld  twenty-seven  nuthatches  emerge  from  a 
hole  in  a  pine. 

By  tapping  against  dead  tree-trunks  I  have 
often  roused  Mother  Woodpecker  from  her  nest. 
Thrusting  out  her  head  from  a  hole  far  above,  she 
peered  down  with  one  eye  and  comically  tilted 
her  head  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  disturb- 
ance. With  long  nose  and  head  tilted  to  one 
side,  she  had  both  a  storky  and  a  philosophical 
appearance.  The  woodpecker,  more  than  any 
other  bird  of  my  acquaintance,  at  times  actu- 
ally appears  to  need  only  a  pair  of  spectacles 
upon  his  nose  in  order  fully  to  complete  his  atti- 
tude and  expression  of  wisdom. 

The  downy  woodpecker,  the  smallest  member 
of  a  family  of  twenty-four  distinguished  species, 
is  the  honored  one.  He  is  a  confiding  little  fellow 
and  I  have  often  accompanied  him  on  his  daily 
rounds.  He  does  not  confine  his  attacks  to  the 
concealed  enemies  of  the  trees,  but  preys  freely 

200 


upon  caterpillars  and  other  enemies  which  feast 
upon  their  leaves  and  bloom.  He  appears  most 
content  close  to  the  haunts  of  man  and  spends 
much  of  his  time  caring  for  orchards  and  clean- 
ing up  the  shade  trees.  One  morning  in  Mis- 
souri a  downy  alighted  against  the  base  of  an 
apple  tree  within  a  few  feet  of  where  I  was  stand- 
ing. He  arrived  with  an  undulating  flight  and 
swept  in  sideways  toward  the  trunk,  as  though 
thrown.  Spat!  he  struck.  For  a  moment  he 
stuck  motionless,  then  he  began  to  sidle  round 
and  up  the  trunk.  Every  now  and  then  he 
tapped  with  his  bill  or  else  stopped  to  peer  into 
a  bark-cavity.  He  devoured  an  insect  egg- 
cluster,  a  spider,  and  a  beetle  of  some  kind  be- 
fore ascending  to  the  first  limb. 

Just  below  the  point  of  a  limb's  attachment 
he  edged  about,  giving  the  tree-trunk  a  rattling 
patter  of  taps  with  his  bill.  He  was  sounding 
for  something.  Presently  a  spot  appeared  to 
satisfy  him.  Adjusting  himself,  he  rained  blows 
with  his  pick-axe  bill  upon  this,  tilting  his  head 
and  directing  the  strokes  with  an  apparently 
automatic  action,  now  and  then  giving  a  side 

201 


of 


swipe  with  his  bill,  probably  to  tear  out  a  splin- 
ter or  throw  off  a  chip.  In  six  minutes  his  prey 
was  evidently  in  sight.  Then  he  enlarged  the 
hole  and  slightly  deepened  it  vertically.  Paus- 
ing, he  thrust  his  head  into  the  hole  and  his  bill 
into  a  cavity  beyond.  With  a  backward  tug  he 
pulled  his  head  out,  then  his  bill,  and  at  last 
his  extended  tongue  with  a  grub  impaled  on  its 
barbed  point.  This  grub  was  dragged  from  the 
bottom  of  a  crooked  gallery  at  a  point  more  than 
three  inches  beyond  the  bottom  of  the  pecked 
hole.  A  useful  bread-getting  tool,  this  tongue  of 
his,  —  a  flexible,  extensible  spear. 

In  another  tree  he  uncovered  a  feast  of  ants 
and  their  eggs.  Once  a  grasshopper  alighted 
against  another  tree-trunk  up  which  he  was 
climbing.  Downy  seized  him  instantly.  In  one 
tree-top  he  consumed  an  entire  tent-caterpillar 
colony.  In  four  hours  he  examined  the  trunks, 
larger  limbs,  and  many  of  the  smaller  ones  of  one 
hundred  and  thirty-eight  apple  trees.  In  this 
time  he  made  twenty-two  excavations,  five  of 
which  were  large  ones.  Among  the  insects  de- 
voured were  beetles,  ants,  their  eggs  and  their 

202 


©tr*  TUoobpecfter, 

aphids,  a  grasshopper,  a  moth  or  two,  and  a 
colony  of  caterpillars.  I* followed  him  closely, 
and  frequently  was  within  a  few  feet  of  him. 
Often  I  saw  his  eyes,  or  rather  one  eye  at  a  time; 
and  a  number  of  times  I  imagined  him  about  to 
look  round  and  with  merry  laugh  fly  away,  for 
he  frequently  acted  like  a  happy  child  who  is 
closely  watching  you  while  all  the  time  merrily 
pretending  not  to  see  you.  Yet,  in  all  those  four 
hours,  he  did  not  do  a  single  thing  which  showed 
that  he  knew  of  my  nearness  or  even  of  my 
existence ! 

Examining  each  tree  in  turn,  he  moved  down 
a  long  row  and  at  the  end  flew  without  the  slight- 
est pause  to  the  first  tree  in  the  next  row.  From 
here  he  examined  a  line  of  trees  diagonally 
across  the  orchard  to  the  farther  corner.  Here 
he  followed  along  the  outside  row  until  he  flew 
away.  The  line  of  his  inspection,  from  the  time 
I  first  saw  him  until  he  flew  away,  formed  a  big 
letter  "N." 

During  a  wind-storm  in  a  pine  forest  a  dead 
tree  fell  near  me  and  a  flying  limb  knocked  a 
downy,  stunned,  to  the  earth,  by  my  feet.  On 

203 


reviving  in  my  hands,  he  showed  but  little  ex- 
citement, and  when  my  hands  opened  he  pushed 
himself  off  as  though  to  dive  to  the  earth ;  but 
he  skimmed  and  swung  upward,  landing  against 
a  tree-trunk  about  twenty  feet  distant.  Up  this 
he  at  once  began  to  skate  and  sidle,  exploring 
away  as  though  nothing  had  happened  and  I 
were  only  a  stump. 


E  day,  while  wandering  in  the  pine  woods 
on  the  slope  of  Mt.  Meeker,  I  came  upon 
two  young  grizzly  bears.  Though  they  dodged 
about  as  lively  as  chickens,  I  at  last  cornered 
them  in  a  penlike  pocket  of  fallen  trees. 

Getting  them  into  a  sack  was  one  of  the  live- 
liest experiences  I  ever  had.  Though  small  and 
almost  starved,  these  little  orphans  proceeded 
to  "chew  me  up"  after  the  manner  of  big  griz- 
zlies, as  is  told  of  them  in  books.  After  an  ex- 
citing chase  and  tussle,  I  would  catch  one  and 
thrust  him  into  the  sack.  In  resisting,  he  would 
insert  his  claws  into  my  clothes,  or  thrust  them 
through  the  side  of  the  sack;  then,  while  I  was 
trying  to  tear  him  loose,  or  to  thrust  him  forci- 
bly in,  he  would  lay  hold  of  a  finger,  or  take  a 
bite  in  my  leg.  Whenever  he  bit,  I  at  once 
dropped  him,  and  then  all  began  over  again. 

Their  mother  had  been  killed  a  few  days  be- 
fore I  found  them ;  so,  of  course,  they  were  fam- 

207 


of 


ished  and  in  need  of  a  home  ;  but  so  bitterly  did 
they  resist  my  efforts  that  I  barely  succeeded 
in  taking  them.  Though  hardly  so  large  as  a 
collie  when  he  is  at  his  prettiest,  they  were  nim- 
ble athletes. 

At  last  I  started  home,  the  sack  over  my 
shoulder,  with  these  lively  Ursus  horribilis  in  the 
bottom  of  it.  Their  final  demonstration  was 
not  needed  to  convince  me  of  the  extraordinary 
power  of  their  jaws.  Nevertheless,  while  going 
down  a  steep  slope,  one  managed  to  bite  into 
my  back  through  sack  and  clothes,  so  effectively 
that  I  responded  with  a  yell.  Then  I  fastened 
the  sack  at  the  end  of  a  long  pole,  which  I  car- 
ried across  my  shoulder,  and  I  was  able  to  travel 
the  remainder  of  the  distance  to  my  cabin  with- 
out another  attack  in  the  rear. 

Of  course  the  youngsters  did  not  need  to  be 
taught  to  eat.  I  simply  pushed  their  noses  down 
into  a  basin  of  milk,  and  the  little  red  tongues  at 
once  began  to  ply  ;  then  raw  eggs  and  bread  were 
dropped  into  the  basin.  There  was  no  hesita- 
tion between  courses;  they  simply  gobbled  the 
food  as  long  as  I  kept  it  before  them. 

208 


Jenny  and  Johnny  were  pets  before  sundown. 
Though  both  were  alert,  Johnny  was  the  wiser 
and  the  more  cheerful  of  the  two.  He  took 
training  as  readily  as  a  collie  or  shepherd-dog, 
and  I  have  never  seen  any  dog  more  playful. 
All  bears  are  keen  of  wit,  but  he  was  the  bright- 
est one  of  the  wild  folk  that  I  have  ever  known. 
He  grew  rapidly,  and  ate  me  almost  out  of  sup- 
plies. We  were  intimate  friends  in  less  than  a 
month,  and  I  spent  much  time  playing  and  talk- 
ing with  him.  One  of  the  first  things  I  taught 
him  was,  when  hungry,  to  stand  erect  with  arms 
extended  almost  horizontally,  with  palms  for- 
ward. I  also  taught  him  to  greet  me  in  this 
manner. 

One  day,  after  two  weeks  with  me,  he  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  pole  fence  to  which  he  was 
chained.  Up  there  he  had  a  great  time;  he 
perched,  gazed  here  and  there,  pranced  back 
and  forth,  and  finally  fell  off.  His  chain  tangled 
and  caught.  For  a  few  seconds  he  dangled  in 
the  air  by  the  neck,  then  slipped  through  his 
collar  and  galloped  off  up  the  mountainside  and 
quickly  disappeared  in  the  woods.  I  supposed 

209 


of 


he  was  gone  for  good.  Although  I  followed  for 
several  hours,  I  did  not  even  catch  sight  of  him. 

This  little  boy  had  three  days  of  runaway 
life,  and  then  concluded  to  return.  Hunger 
drove  him  back.  I  saw  him  coming  and  went  to 
meet  him;  but  kept  out  of  sight  until  he  was 
within  twenty  feet,  then  stepped  into  view. 
Apparently  a  confused  or  entangled  mental 
condition  followed  my  appearance.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  let  me  know  that  he  was  hungry 
by  standing  erect  and  outstretching  his  arms; 
this  he  started  hastily  to  do. 

In  the  midst  of  this  performance,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  if  he  wanted  anything  to  eat  he  must 
hurry  to  me;  so  he  interrupted  his  first  action, 
and  started  to  carry  his  second  into  instant 
effect.  These  incomplete  proceedings  inter- 
rupted and  tripped  one  another  three  or  four 
times  in  rapid  succession.  Though  he  tumbled 
about  in  comic  confusion  while  trying  to  do  two 
things  at  once,  it  was  apparent  through  all  that 
his  central  idea  was  to  get  something  to  eat. 

And  this,  as  with  all  boys,  was  his  central 
idea  much  of  the  time.  I  did  not  find  anything 

2IO 


that  he  would  not  eat.  He  simply  gobbled 
scraps  from  the  table,  —  mountain  sage,  rhu- 
barb, dandelion,  and  apples.  Of  course,  being  a 
boy,  he  liked  apples  best  of  all. 

If  I  approached  him  with  meat  and  honey 
upon  a  plate  and  with  an  apple  in  my  pocket,  he 
would  smell  the  apple  and  begin  to  dance  before 
me,  ignoring  the  eatables  in  sight.  Instantly, 
on  permission,  he  would  clasp  me  with  both  fore 
paws  and  thrust  his  nose  into  the  apple  pocket. 
Often,  standing  between  him  and  Jenny,  I  alter- 
nately fed  each  a  bit.  A  few  times  I  broke  the 
regular  order  and  gave  Jenny  two  bits  in  suc- 
cession. At  this  Johnny  raged,  and  usually 
ended  by  striking  desperately  at  me;  I  never 
flinched,  and  the  wise  little  rogue  made  it  a  point 
each  time  to  miss  me  by  an  inch  or  two.  A  few 
other  people  tried  this  irritating  experiment 
with  him,  but  he  hit  them  every  time.  However, 
I  early  tried  to  prevent  anything  being  done 
that  teased  or  irritated  him.  Visitors  did  occa- 
sionally tease  him,  and  frequently  they  fed  the 
two  on  bad- temper-producing  knickknacks. 

Occasionally  the  two  quarreled,  but  not  more 

211 


of  tfy  (Koc6te0 


frequently  than  two  ordinary  children;  and 
these  quarrels  were  largely  traceable  to  fight- 
producing  food  mixtures.  Anyway,  bears  will 
maintain  a  better  disposition  with  a  diet  of 
putrid  meat,  snakes,  mice,  and  weeds  than  upon 
desserts  of  human  concoction. 

Naturally  bears  are  fun-loving  and  cheerful; 
they  like  to  romp  and  play.  Johnny  played  by 
the  hour.  Most  of  the  time  he  was  chained  to  a 
low,  small  shed  that  was  built  for  his  accom- 
modation. Scores  of  times  each  day  he  covered 
all  the  territory  that  could  be  traversed  while 
he  was  fastened  with  a  twelve-foot  chain.  Often 
he  skipped  back  and  forth  in  a  straight  line  for 
an  hour  or  more.  These  were  not  the  restless, 
aimless  movements  of  the  caged  tiger,  but  those 
of  playful,  happy  activity.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
watch  this  eager  play;  in  it  he  would  gallop  to 
the  outer  limit  of  his  chain,  then,  reversing  his 
legs  without  turning  his  body,  go  backward 
with  a  queer,  lively  hippety-hop  to  the  other 
end,  then  gallop  forward  again.  He  knew  the 
length  of  his  chain  to  an  inch.  No  matter  how 
wildly  he  rushed  after  some  bone-stealing  dog, 

212 


he  was  never  jerked  off  his  feet  by  forgetting 
his  limitations. 

He  and  Scotch,  my  collie,  were  good  friends 
and  jolly  playmates.  In  their  favorite  play 
Scotch  tried  to  take  a  bone  which  Johnny 
guarded ;  this  brought  out  from  both  a  lively  lot 
of  feinting,  dodging,  grabbing,  and  striking. 
Occasionally  they  clinched,  and  when  this  ended, 
Johnny  usually  tried  for  a  good  bite  or  two  on 
Scotch's  shaggy  tail.  Scotch  appeared  always  to 
have  in  mind  that  the  end  of  Johnny's  nose  was 
sensitive,  and  he  landed  many  a  good  slap  on 
this  spot. 

Apparently,  Johnny  early  appreciated  the 
fact  that  I  would  not  tease  him,  and  also  that  I 
was  a  master  who  must  be  obeyed.  One  day, 
however,  he  met  with  a  little  mishap,  misjudged 
things,  and  endeavored  to  make  it  lively  for 
me.  I  had  just  got  him  to  the  point  where  he 
enjoyed  a  rocking-chair.  In  this  chair  he  sat  up 
like  a  little  man.  Sometimes  his  fore  paws  lay 
awkwardly  in  his  lap,  but  more  often  each 
rested  on  an  arm  of  the  big  chair.  He  found 
rocking  such  a  delight  that  it  was  not  long  until 

213 


of 


he  learned  to  rock  himself.  This  brought  on  the 
mishap.  He  had  grown  over-confident,  and  one 
day  was  rocking  with  great  enthusiasm.  Sud- 
denly, the  big  rocker,  little  man  and  all,  went 
over  backward.  Though  standing  by,  I  was 
unable  to  save  him,  and  did  not  move.  Seeing 
his  angry  look  when  he  struck  the  floor,  and 
guessing  his  next  move,  I  leaped  upon  the  table. 
Up  he  sprang,  and  delivered  a  vicious  blow  that 
barely  missed,  but  which  knocked  a  piece  out  of 
my  trousers. 

Apparently  no  other  large  animal  has  such  in- 
tense curiosity  as  the  grizzly.  An  object  in  the 
distance,  a  scent,  a  sound,  or  a  trail,  may  arouse 
this,  and  for  a  time  overcome  his  intense  and 
wary  vigilance.  In  satisfying  this  curiosity  he 
will  do  unexpected  and  apparently  bold  things. 
But  the  instant  the  mystery  is  solved  he  is  him- 
self again,  and  may  run  for  dear  life  from  some 
situation  into  which  his  curiosity  has  unwit- 
tingly drawn  him.  An  unusual  noise  behind 
Johnny's  shed  would  bring  him  out  with  a  rush, 
to  determine  what  it  was.  If  not  at  once  satis- 
fied as  to  the  cause,  he  would  put  his  fore  paws 

214 


on  the  top  of  the  shed  and  peer  over  in  the  most 
eager  and  inquiring  manner  imaginable.  Like 
a  scout,  he  spied  mysterious  and  dim  objects 
afar.  If  a  man,  a  dog,  or  a  horse,  appeared  in 
the  distance,  he  quickly  discovered  the  object, 
and  at  once  stood  erect,  with  fore  paws  drawn 
up,  until  he  had  a  good  look  at  it.  The  instant 
he  made  out  what  it  was,  he  lost  interest  in  it. 
At  all  times  he  was  vigilant  to  know  what 
was  going  on  about  him. 

He  was  like  a  boy  in  his  fondness  for  water. 
Usually,  when  unchained  and  given  the  freedom 
of  the  place,  he  would  spend  much  of  the  time  in 
the  brook,  rolling,  playing,  and  wading.  He  and 
I  had  a  few  foot-races,  and  usually,  in  order  to 
give  me  a  better  chance,  we  ran  down  hill.  In  a 
two-hundred-yard  dash  he  usually  paused  three 
or  four  times  and  waited  for  me  to  catch  up, 
and  I  was  not  a  slow  biped,  either. 

The  grizzly,  though  apparently  awkward  and 
lumbering,  is  really  one  of  the  most  agile  of 
beasts.  I  constantly  marveled  at  Johnny's  light- 
ness of  touch,  or  the  deftness  of  movement  of  his 
fore  paws.  With  but  one  claw  touching  it,  he 

215 


of  <0e  $oc8ies 


could  slide  a  coin  back  and  forth  on  the  floor 
more  rapidly  and  lightly  than  I  could.  He  would 
slide  an  eggshell  swiftly  along  without  breaking 
it.  Yet  by  using  but  one  paw,  he  could,  without 
apparent  effort,  overturn  rocks  that  were  heav- 
ier than  himself. 

One  day,  while  he  slept  in  the  yard,  out- 
stretched in  the  sun,  I  opened  a  large  umbrella 
and  put  it  over  him,  and  waited  near  for  him  to 
wake  up.  By  and  by  the  sleepy  eyes  half  opened, 
but  without  a  move  he  closed  them  and  slept 
again.  Presently  he  was  wide  awake,  making  a 
quiet  study  of  the  strange  thing  over  him,  but 
except  to  roll  his  eyes,  not  a  move  did  he  make. 
Then  a  puff  of  wind  gave  sudden  movement  to 
the  umbrella,  rolling  it  over  a  point  or  two.  At 
this  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  terribly  frightened, 
and  made  a  dash  to  escape  this  mysterious  mon- 
ster. But,  as  he  jumped,  the  wind  whirled  the 
umbrella,  and  plump  into  it  he  landed.  An  in- 
stant of  desperate  clawing,  and  he  shook  off  the 
wrecked  umbrella  and  fled  in  terror.  A  minute 
or  two  later  I  found  him  standing  behind  the 
house,  still  frightened  and  trembling.  When  I 

216 


came  up  and  spoke  to  him,  he  made  three  or 
four  lively  attempts  to  bite  my  ankles.  Plainly, 
he  felt  that  I  had  played  a  mean  and  uncalled- 
for  trick  upon  him.  I  talked  to  him  for  some 
time  and  endeavored  to  explain  the  matter  to 
him. 

A  sudden  movement  of  a  new  or  mysterious 
object  will  usually  frighten  any  animal.  On 
more  than  one  occasion  people  have  taken  ad- 
vantage of  this  characteristic  of  wild  beasts,  and 
prevented  an  attack  upon  themselves.  In  one 
instance  I  unconsciously  used  it  to  my  advan- 
tage. In  the  woods,  one  day,  as  I  have  related 
elsewhere,  two  wolves  and  myself  unexpectedly 
met.  With  bared  teeth  they  stood  ready  to  leap 
upon  me.  Needing  something  to  keep  up  my 
courage  and  divert  my  thoughts,  it  occurred  to 
me  to  snap  a  picture  of  them.  This  effectively 
broke  the  spell,  for  when  the  kodak  door  flew 
open  they  wheeled  and  fled. 

Autumn  came,  and  I  was  to  leave  for  a  for- 
estry tour.  The  only  man  that  I  could  persuade 
to  stay  at  my  place  for  the  winter  was  one  who 
neither  understood  nor  sympathized  with  my 

217 


of  $t  (goatee 


wide-awake  and  aggressive  young  grizzly.  Real- 
izing that  the  man  and  the  bear  would  surely 
clash,  and  perhaps  to  the  man's  disadvantage, 
I  settled  things  once  and  for  all  by  sending 
Johnny  to  the  Denver  Zoo. 

He  was  seven  months  old  when  we  parted, 
and  apparently  as  much  attached  to  me  as  any 
dog  to  master.  I  frequently  had  news  of  him, 
but  let  two  years  go  by  before  I  allowed  myself 
the  pleasure  of  visiting  him.  He  was  lying  on 
the  ground  asleep  when  I  called,  while  around 
him  a  number  of  other  bears  were  walking 
about.  He  was  no  longer  a  boy  bear,  but  a  big 
fellow.  In  my  eagerness  to  see  him  I  forgot  to 
be  cautious  and,  climbing  to  the  top  of  the  picket 
fence,  leaped  into  the  pen,  calling,  "Hello, 
Johnny!"  as  I  leaped,  and  repeating  this  greet- 
ing as  I  landed  on  the  ground  beside  him.  He 
jumped  up,  fully  awake,  and  at  once  recognized 
me.  Instantly,  he  stood  erect,  with  both  arms 
extended,  and  gave  a  few  happy  grunts  of  joy 
and  by  way  of  greeting. 

I  talked  to  him  for  a  little  while  and  patted 
him  as  I  talked.  Then  I  caught  a  fore  paw  in 

218 


my  hand  and  we  hopped  and  pranced  about  as 
in  old  times.  A  yell  from  the  outside  brought  me 
to  my  senses.  Instinctively  I  glanced  about  for 
a  way  of  escape,  though  I  really  did  not  feel 
that  I  was  in  danger.  We  were,  however,  the 
observed  of  all  observers,  and  I  do  not  know 
which  throng  was  staring  with  greater  interest 
and  astonishment,  —  the  bears  in  the  pen  or 
the  spectators  on  the  outside. 


(KCone  fcri$  a 


ALKALIZING  the  importance  of  traveling  as 
Vi,*'  lightly  as  possible  during  my  hasty  trip 
through  the  Uncompahgre  Mountains,  I  al- 
lowed myself  to  believe  that  the  golden  days 
would  continue.  Accordingly  I  set  off  with  no 
bedding,  with  but  little  food,  and  without  even 
snowshoes.  A  few  miles  up  the  trail,  above  Lake 
City,  I  met  a  prospector  coming  down  and  out 
of  these  mountains  for  the  winter.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "the  first  snow  usually  is  a  heavy  one,  and 
I  am  going  out  now  for  fear  of  being  snowed-in 
for  the  winter."  My  imagination  at  once  pict- 
ured the  grand  mountains  deeply,  splendidly 
covered  with  snow,  myself  by  a  camp-fire  in  a 
solemn  primeval  forest  without  food  or  bedding, 
a  camp-bird  on  a  near-by  limb  sympathizing 
with  me  in  low,  confiding  tones,  the  snow  waist- 
deep  and  mountains-wide.  Then  I  dismissed 
the  imaginary  picture  of  winter  and  joyfully 
climbed  the  grand  old  mountains  amid  the  low 

223 


gyttt  of 

and  leafless  aspens  and  the  tall  and  richly  robed 
firs. 

I  was  impelled  to  try  to  make  this  mountain 
realm  a  National  Forest  and  felt  that  sometime 
it  would  become  a  National  Park.  The  wonder- 
ful reports  of  prospectors  about  the  scenery  of  this 
region,  together  with  what  I  knew  of  it  from  in- 
complete exploration,  eloquently  urged  this 
course  upon  me.  My  plan  was  to  make  a  series 
of  photographs,  from  commanding  heights  and 
slopes,  that  would  illustrate  the  forest  wealth 
and  the  scenic  grandeur  of  this  wonderland.  In 
the  centre  Uncompahgre  Peak  rose  high,  and 
by  girdling  it  a  little  above  the  timber  I  obtained 
a  number  of  the  desired  photographs,  and  then 
hurried  from  height  to  height,  taking  other  pict- 
ures of  towering  summits  or  their  slopes  below 
that  were  black  and  purpling  with  impressive, 
pathless  forests. 

The  second  evening  I  went  into  camp  among 
some  picturesque  trees  upon  a  skyline  at  an 
altitude  of  eleven  thousand  feet  above  the  tides. 
While  gathering  wood  for  a  fire,  I  paused  to 
watch  the  moon,  a  great  globe  of  luminous  gold, 

224 


($fone 


rise  strangely,  silently  into  the  mellow  haze  of 
autumn  night.  For  a  moment  on  the  horizon  it 
paused  to  peep  from  behind  a  crag  into  a  scat- 
tered group  of  weird  storm-beaten  trees  on  a 
ridge  before  me,  then  swiftly  floated  up  into 
lonely,  misty  space.  Just  before  I  lay  down  for 
the  night,  I  saw  a  cloud-form  in  the  dim,  low 
distance  that  was  creeping  up  into  my  moonlit 
world  of  mountains.  Other  shadowy  forms  fol- 
lowed it.  A  little  past  midnight  I  was  awakened 
by  the  rain  falling  gently,  coldly  upon  my  face. 
As  I  stood  shivering  with  my  back  to  the  fire, 
there  fell  an  occasional  feathery  flake  of  snow. 
Had  my  snowshoes  been  with  me,  a  different 
lot  of  experiences  would  have  followed.  With 
them  I  should  have  stayed  in  camp  and  watched 
the  filmy  flakes  form  their  beautiful  white  feath- 
ery bog  upon  the  earth,  watched  robes,  rugs, 
and  drapery  decorate  rocks  and  cliffs,  or  the  fir 
trees  come  out  in  pointed,  spearhead  caps,  or 
the  festoons  form  upon  the  limbs  of  dead  and 
lifeless  trees,  —  crumbling  tree-ruins  in  the 
midst  of  growing  forest  life.  To  be  without  food 
or  snowshoes  in  faraway  mountain  snows  is 

225 


of 


about  as  serious  as  to  be  adrift  in  a  lifeboat 
without  food  or  oars  in  the  ocean's  wide  waste. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  large,  almost  pelt-like 
flakes  were  falling  thick  and  fast.  Hastily  I  put 
the  two  kodaks  and  the  treasured  films  into 
water-tight  cases,  pocketed  my  only  food,  a 
handful  of  raisins,  adjusted  hatchet  and  barome- 
ter, then  started  across  the  strange,  snowy  moun- 
tains through  the  night. 

The  nearest  and  apparently  the  speediest 
way  out  lay  across  the  mountains  to  Ridgway; 
the  first  half  of  this  fifteen  miles  was  through  a 
rough  section  that  was  new  to  me.  After  the 
lapse  of  several  years  this  night  expedition  ap- 
pears a  serious  one,  though  at  the  time  it  gave  me 
no  concern  that  I  recall.  How  I  ever  managed 
to  go  through  that  black,  storm-filled  night 
without  breaking  my  neck  amid  the  innumerable 
opportunities  for  accident,  is  a  thing  that  I  can- 
not explain. 

I  descended  a  steep,  rugged  slope  for  a  thou- 
sand feet  or  more  with  my  eyes  useless  in  the 
eager  falling  of  mingled  rain  and  snow.  Nothing 
could  be  seen,  but  despite  slow,  careful  going 

226 


toil®  a 


a  dead  limb  occasionally  prodded  me.  With  the 
deliberation  of  a  blind  man  I  descended  the  long, 
steep,  broken,  slippery  slope,  into  the  bottom 
of  a  canon.  Now  and  then  I  came  out  upon  a 
jumping-off  place;  here  I  felt  before  and  below 
with  a  slender  staff  for  a  place  to  descend  ;  occa- 
sionally no  bottom  could  be  found,  and  upon 
this  report  I  would  climb  back  a  short  distance 
and  search  out  a  way. 

Activity  kept  me  warm,  although  the  cold 
rain  drenched  me  and  the  slipperiness  of  slopes 
and  ledges  never  allowed  me  to  forget  the  law  of 
falling  bodies.  At  last  a  roaring  torrent  told  me 
that  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  slope.  Apparently 
I  had  come  down  by  the  very  place  where  the 
stream  contracted  and  dashed  into  a  deep,  nar- 
row box  canon.  Not  being  able  to  go  down 
stream  or  make  a  crossing  at  this  point,  I  turned 
and  went  up  the  stream  for  half  a  mile  or  so, 
where  I  crossed  the  swift,  roaring  water  in  inky 
darkness  on  a  fallen  Douglas  spruce,  —  for  such 
was  the  arrangement  of  its  limbs  and  the  feel  of 
the  wood  in  its  barkless  trunk,  that  these  told  me 
it  was  a  spruce,  though  I  could  see  nothing. 

227 


gfttt  of 

During  this  night  journey  I  put  myself  both  in 
feeling  and  in  fact  in  a  blind  man's  place,  —  the 
best  lesson  I  ever  had  to  develop  deliberation 
and  keenness  of  touch. 

The  next  hour  after  crossing  the  stream  I  spent 
in  climbing  and  descending  a  low  wooded  ridge 
with  smooth  surface  and  gentle  slopes.  Then 
there  was  one  more  river,  the  Little  Cimar- 
ron,  to  cross.  An  Engelmann  spruce,  with  scaly, 
flaky  bark,  that  had  stood  perfectly  perpendicu- 
lar for  a  century  or  two  but  had  recently  been 
hurled  to  the  horizontal,  provided  a  long,  vibrat- 
ing bridge  for  me  to  cross  on.  Once  across,  I 
started  to  climb  the  most  unstable  mountain 
that  I  had  ever  trodden. 

Mt.  Coxcomb,  up  which  I  climbed,  is  not  one 
of  the  "eternal  hills"  but  a  crumbling,  dissolv- 
ing, tumbling,  transient  mountain.  Every  hard 
rain  dissolves,  erodes,  and  uncovers  the  sides  of 
this  mountain  as  if  it  were  composed  of  sugar, 
paste,  and  stones.  It  is  made  up  of  a  confused 
mingling  of  parts  and  masses  of  soluble  and 
flinty  materials.  Here  change  and  erosion  run 
riot  after  every  rain.  There  is  a  great  falling  to 

228 


NEAR   THE   TOP   OF   MT.   COXCOMB 


QWone 


pieces;  gravity,  the  insatiable,  is  temporarily 
satisfied,  and  the  gulches  feast  on  earthy  mate- 
rials, while  the  river-channel  is  glutted  with 
crushed  cliffs,  acres  of  earth,  and  the  debris  of 
ruined  forests.  Here  and  there  these  are  flung 
together  in  fierce  confusion. 

On  this  bit  of  the  wild  world's  stage  are  the- 
atrical lightning  changes  of  scenes,  —  changes 
that  on  most  mountains  would  require  ten  thou- 
sand years  or  more.  It  is  a  place  of  strange  and 
fleeting  landscapes;  the  earth  is  ever  changing 
like  the  sky.  In  wreathed  clouds  a  great  cliff  is 
born,  stands  out  bold  and  new  in  the  sunshine 
and  the  blue.  The  Storm  King  comes,  the  thun- 
ders echo  among  crags  and  canons,  the  broken 
clouds  clear  away,  and  the  beautiful  bow  bends 
above  a  ruined  cliff. 

Here  and  there  strange,  immature  monsters 
are  struggling  to  rise,  —  to  free  themselves  from 
the  earth.  Occasionally  a  crag  is  brought  forth 
full  grown  during  one  operation  of  gravity,  ero- 
sion, and  storm,  and  left  upon  a  foundation  that 
would  raise  corn  but  never  sustain  cliff  or  crag. 
Scattered  monoliths  at  times  indulge  in  a  con- 

229 


of 


test  of  leaning  the  farthest  from  the  perpendic- 
ular without  falling.  The  potato-patch  found- 
ations of  these  in  time  give  way,  then  gravity 
drags  them  head  foremost,  or  in  broken  install- 
ments, down  the  slope. 

Among  the  forested  slopes  that  I  traversed 
there  were  rock-slides,  earthy  glaciers,  and  leaf- 
less gulches  with  crumbling  walls.  Some  of  these 
gulches  extended  from  bottom  to  top  of  the 
mountain,  while  others  were  digging  their  way. 
An  occasional  one  had  a  temporary  ending 
against  the  bottom  of  a  kingly  cliff,  whose  short 
reign  was  about  to  end  as  its  igneous  throne  was 
disorganized  and  decomposed.  The  storm  and 
darkness  continued  as  I  climbed  the  mountain 
of  short-lived  scenes,  —  a  mountain  so  eagerly 
moving  from  its  place  in  the  sky  to  a  bed  in  the 
sea.  The  saturation  had  softened  and  lubricated 
the  surface;  these  sedimentary  slopes  had  been 
made  restless  by  the  rain. 

I  endeavored  to  follow  up  one  of  the  ridges, 
but  it  was  narrow  and  all  the  pulpy  places  very 
slippery.  Fearing  to  tumble  off  into  the  dark 
unknown,  I  climbed  down  into  a  gully  and  up 

230 


($£one 


fian&sftfce 


this  made  my  way  toward  the  top.  All  my 
mountain  experience  told  me  to  stay  on  the 
ridge  and  not  travel  in  darkness  the  way  in 
which  gravity  flings  all  his  spoils. 

The  clouds  were  low,  and  I  climbed  well  up 
into  them.  The  temperature  was  cooler,  and 
snow  was  whitening  the  earth.  When  I  was  well 
up  to  the  silver  lining  of  the  clouds,  a  gust  of 
wind  momentarily  rent  them,  and  I  stood  amid 
snow-covered  statuary,  —  leaning  monoliths 
and  shattered  minarets  all  weird  and  enchant- 
ing in  the  moonlight.  A  few  seconds  later  I  was 
in  darkness  and  snowstorm  again. 

The  gulch  steepened  and  apparently  grew 
shallower.  Occasionally  a  mass  of  mud  or  a  few 
small  stones  rolled  from  the  sides  of  the  gulch 
to  my  feet  and  told  that  saturation  was  at  work 
dissolving  and  loosening  anchorages  and  found- 
ations. It  was  time  to  get  out  of  the  gulch.  While 
I  was  making  haste  to  do  so,  there  came  a  sud- 
den tremor  instantly  followed  by  an  awful 
crash  and  roar.  Then  r-r-rip!  z-zi-ip!  s-w-w-r-r-ip! 
A  bombardment  of  flying,  bounding,  plunging 
rocks  from  an  overturned  cliff  above  was  raking 

231 


of  tfc 


my  gulch.  Nothing  could  be  seen,  but  several 
slaps  in  the  face  from  dashes  of  snow  which 
these  rock  missiles  disturbed  and  displaced  was 
expressively  comprehensive. 

As  this  brief  bombardment  ceased,  the  omi- 
nous sounds  from  above  echoing  among  the 
cliffs  shouted  warning  of  an  advancing  land- 
slide. This  gave  a  little  zest  to  my  efforts  to 
get  out  of  the  gulch;  too  much  perhaps,  for 
my  scramble  ended  in  a  slip  and  a  tumble  back 
to  the  bottom.  In  the  second  attempt  a  long, 
uncovered  tree-root  reached  down  to  me  in  the 
darkness,  and  with  the  aid  of  this  I  climbed 
out  of  the  way  of  the  avalanche.  None  too 
soon,  however.  With  quarreling  and  subdued 
grinding  sounds  the  rushing  flood  of  landslide 
material  went  past,  followed  by  an  offensive 
smell. 

While  I  paused  listening  to  the  monster  groan 
and  grind  his  way  downward,  the  cliffs  fired  a 
few  more  rock  missiles  in  my  direction.  One 
struck  a  crag  beside  me.  The  explosive  contact 
gave  forth  a  blast  of  sputtering  sparks  and  an 
offensive,  rotten-egg  smell.  A  flying  fragment 

232 


QWone 


of  this  shattered  missile  struck  my  left  instep, 
breaking  one  of  the  small  bones. 

Fortunately  my  foot  was  resting  in  the  mud 
when  struck.  When  consciousness  came  back 
to  me  I  was  lying  in  the  mud  and  snow,  drenched, 
mud-bespattered,  and  cold.  The  rain  and  snow 
had  almost  ceased  to  fall,  and  while  I  was  band- 
aging my  foot  the  pale  light  of  day  began  to 
show  feebly  through  heavy  clouds.  If  that  lum- 
inous place  is  in  the  eastern  horizon,  then  I  have 
lost  my  sense  of  direction.  An  appeal  to  the 
compass  brought  no  consolation,  for  it  said 
laconically,  "Yes,  you  are  turned  around  now, 
even  though  you  never  were  before."  The  accu- 
racy of  the  compass  was  at  once  doubted,  — 
but  its  decree  was  followed. 

Slowly,  painfully,  the  slippery,  snowy  steeps 
were  scaled  beneath  a  low,  gloomy  sky.  My 
plan  was  to  cross  the  north  shoulder  of  Mt.  Cox- 
comb and  then  down  slope  and  gulch  descend 
to  the  deeply  filled  alluvium  Uncompahgre  val- 
ley and  the  railroad  village  of  Ridgway.  With 
the  summit  only  a  few  feet  above,  the  wall  be- 
came so  steep  and  the  hold  so  insecure  that  it 

233 


gpttt  of  $e  (Rocgtes 

appeared  best  to  turn  back  lest  I  be  precipitated 
from  the  cliff.  The  small,  hard  points  in  the 
sedimentary  wall  had  been  loosened  in  their  set- 
tings by  the  rain.  Climbing  this  wall  with  two 
good  feet  in  a  dry  time  would  be  adventurous 
pastime.  While  I  was  flattened  against  the  wall, 
descending  with  greatest  caution,  there  came 
a  roaring  crash  together  with  a  trembling  of 
earth  and  air.  An  enormous  section  of  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  mass  that  I  was  on  had  fallen 
away,  and  the  oscillations  of  the  cliff  nearly 
hurled  me  to  the  rock  wreckage  at  the  bottom 
of  the  wall. 

On  safe  footing  at  last,  I  followed  along  the 
bottom  of  the  summit  cliff  and  encountered  the 
place  from  which  the  rocks  had  been  hurled  at 
me  in  the  darkness  and  where  a  cliff  had  fallen 
to  start  the  slide.  It  was  evident  that  the  storm 
waters  had  wrecked  the  foundation  of  the  cliff. 
Ridges  and  gullies  of  the  Bad  Land's  type  fluted 
the  slope  and  prevented  my  traveling  along 
close  to  the  summit  at  right  angles  to  the  slope. 
There  appeared  no  course  for  me  but  to  descend 
to  the  Little  Cimarron  River.  Hours  were  re- 

234 


QWone 


quired  for  less  than  two  miles  of  painful  though 
intensely  interesting  travel. 

It  was  a  day  of  landslides,  —  just  as  there 
are,  in  the  heights,  days  of  snow  slides.  This 
excessive  saturation  after  months  of  drought 
left  cohesion  and  adhesion  but  slight  hold  on 
these  strange  sedimentary  mixtures.  The  sur- 
face tore  loose  and  crawled  ;  cliffs  tumbled.  After 
counting  the  crash  and  echoing  roar  of  forty- 
three  fallen  cliffs,  I  ceased  counting  and  gave 
more  attention  to  other  demonstrations. 

On  the  steeps,  numerous  fleshy  areas  crawled, 
slipped,  and  crept.  The  front  of  a  long  one  had 
brought  up  against  a  rock  ledge  while  the  blind 
rear  of  the  mass  pressed  powerfully  forward, 
crumpling,  folding,  and  piling  the  front  part 
against  the  ledge.  At  one  place  an  enormous 
rocky  buttress  had  tumbled  over.  Below,  the 
largest  piece  of  this,  a  wreck  in  a  mass  of  mud, 
floated  slowly  down  the  slope  in  a  shallow,  mod- 
erately tilted  gulch.  This  buttress  had  been 
something  of  an  impounding,  retaining  wall 
against  which  loosened,  down-drifting  materials 
had  accumulated  into  a  terrace.  The  terrace 

235 


of 

had  long  been  adorned  with  a  cluster  of  tall 
spruces  whose  presence  produced  vegetable 
mould  and  improved  soil  conditions. 

On  the  falling-away  of  this  buttress  the  tree- 
plumed  terrace  commenced  to  sag  and  settle. 
The  soil-covered  debris  was  well  roped  together 
and  reinforced  with  tree-roots.  When  I  came 
along,  these  tall  trees,  so  long  bravely  erect, 
were  leaning,  drooping  forward.  Their  entire 
foundation  had  slipped  several  feet  and  was 
steadily  crowding  out  over  the  pit  from  which 
gravity  had  dragged  the  buttress.  The  trees, 
with  their  roots  wedged  in  crevices,  were  an- 
chored to  bed-rock  and  clinging  on  for  dear  life. 
Now  and  then  a  low,  thudding,  earth-muffled 
sound  told  of  strained  or  ruptured  roots.  The 
foundation  steadily  gave  way  while  the  trees 
drooped  dangerously  forward.  United  on  the 
heights,  the  brave  trees  had  struggled  through 
the  seasons,  and  united  they  would  go  down 
together.  They  had  fixed  and  fertilized  the  spoil 
from  the  slopes  above.  This  spoil  had  been  held 
and  made  to  produce,  and  prevented  from  going 
down  to  clog  the  channel  of  the  Little  Cimarron 

236 


or  making  with  the  waters  the  long,  sifting,  shift- 
ing journey,  joining  at  last  the  lifeless  soil  de- 
posits in  the  delta  tongues  of  the  Colorado.  But 
the  steadfast  trees,  with  all  their  power  to  check 
erosion  and  create  soil,  were  to  fall  before  the 
overwhelming  elements. 

Farther  and  farther  the  unsupported  and 
water-lubricated  foundation  slipped;  more  and 
more  the  trees  leaned  and  drooped  forward ;  until 
gravity  tore  all  loose  and  plunged  the  trees  head 
foremost  into  the  pit,  crushing  down  upon  tum- 
bled tons  of  rocks,  soil,  matted  mud,  and  [roots, 
—  all  the  wreckage  of  the  time-formed,  tree- 
crowned  terrace. 

The  slide  that  narrowly  missed  me  in  the 
night  was  a  monster  one  and  grew  in  magnitude 
as  it  brutally  rooted  and  gouged  its  way  down- 
ward. After  descending  more  than  half  a  mile  it 
struck  an  enormous  dome  rock,  which  stayed 
a  small  part  of  it,  while  the  remainder,  deflected, 
made  an  awesome  plunge  and  engulfed  a  small, 
circular  grove  in  an  easily  sloping  grassy  plot. 
Most  of  the  towering  spruces  were  thrown  down 
and  deeply  buried  beneath  mud,  smashed  cliffs, 

237 


of 

and  the  mangled  forms  of  trees  from  up  the 
slope.  A  few  trees  on  the  margin  of  the  grove 
were  left  standing,  but  they  suffered  from  cruel 
bruises  and  badly  torn  bark. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  grove  a  number  of 
the  trees  were  bent  forward  but  only  partly 
buried ;  with  heads  and  shoulders  out,  they  were 
struggling  to  extricate  themselves,  and  now  and 
then  one  shook  an  arm  free  from  the  debris. 
Over  the  place  where  a  few  hours  before  tall  tree 
plumes  had  stood  in  the  sky,  a  fierce  confusion 
of  slide  wreckage  settled  and  tumbled  to  pieces 
while  the  buried  and  half-buried  trees  whispered, 
murmured,  and  sighed  as  they  struggled  to  rise. 

Out  with  nature  trees  are  supposed  to  stand 
in  one  place  all  their  lives,  but  one  of  the  most 
interesting  movements  of  this  elemental  day 
was  the  transplanting,  by  gravity,  of  an  entire 
clump  of  tall  old  firs.  Water  released  these  trees, 
and  they  appeared  to  enjoy  being  dragged  by 
gravity  to  a  new  home  and  setting.  I  was  rest- 
ing my  foot  and  watching  a  gigantic  monolithic 
stone  settle  and  come  down  gracefully,  when  a 
tree-clump  on  the  skyline  just  beyond  appeared 

238 


(gfone  u>tt0  a 


to  move  forward  several  yards,  then  make  a 
stop.  While  I  was  trying  to  decide  whether  they 
really  had  moved  or  not,  they  moved  forward 
again  with  all  their  earthly  claims,  a  few  square 
rods  of  surface  together  with  their  foundations 
beneath.  With  all  tops  merrily  erect  they  slid 
forward,  swerving  right  and  left  along  the  line 
of  least  resistance,  and  finally  came  to  rest  in  a 
small  unclaimed  flat  in  which  no  doubt  they 
grew  up  with  the  country. 

The  many-sized  slides  of  that  weird  day 
showed  a  change  of  position  varying  from  a  few 
feet  to  a  mile.  Several  ploughed  out  into  the  Lit- 
tle Cimarron  and  piled  its  channel  more  than  full 
of  spoils  from  the  slopes.  Through  this  the  river 
fought  its  way,  and  from  it  the  waters  flowed 
richly  laden  with  earthy  matter. 

The  great  changes  which  took  place  on  Mt. 
Coxcomb  in  a  few  hours  were  more  marked  and 
extensive  than  the  alterations  in  most  mountains 
since  the  Sphinx  began  to  watch  the  shifting, 
changing  sands  by  the  Nile. 

By  mid-afternoon  the  air  grew  colder  and  the 
snow  commenced  to  deepen  upon  the  earth. 

239 


of 


Bedraggled  and  limping,  I  made  slow  progress 
down  the  slope.  Just  at  twilight  a  mother  bear 
and  her  two  cubs  met  me.  They  probably  were 
climbing  up  to  winter-quarters.  I  stood  still  to 
let  them  pass.  When  a  few  yards  distant  the  bear 
rose  up  and  looked  at  me  with  a  combination  of 
curiosity,  astonishment,  and  perhaps  contempt. 
With  Woof!  Woof!  more  in  a  tone  of  disgust  than 
of  fear  or  anger,  she  rushed  off,  followed  by  the 
cubs,  and  the  three  disappeared  in  the  darken- 
ing, snow-filling  forest  aisles. 

The  trees  were  snow-laden  and  dripping,  but 
on  and  on  I  went.  Years  of  training  had  given 
me  great  physical  endurance,  and  this,  along 
with  a  peculiar  mental  attitude  that  Nature  had 
developed  in  me  from  being  alone  in  her  wild 
places  at  all  seasons,  gave  me  a  rare  trust  in  her 
and  an  enthusiastic  though  unconscious  confi- 
dence in  the  ultimate  success  of  whatever  I  at- 
tempted to  accomplish  out  of  doors. 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  at  last 
descended  to  the  river.  The  fresh  debris  on  my 
side  of  the  stream  so  hampered  traveling  that  it 
became  necessary  to  cross.  Not  finding  any 

240 


(gfon*  )m$  a 


fallen-tree  bridge,  I  started  to  wade  across  in  a 
wide  place  that  I  supposed  to  be  shallow.  Mid- 
way and  hip-deep  in  the  swift  water,  I  struck 
the  injured  foot  against  a  boulder,  momentarily 
flinching,  and  the  current  swirled  me  off  my  feet. 
After  much  struggling  and  battling  with  the  tur- 
bulent waters,  I  succeeded  in  reaching  the  oppo- 
site shore.  This  immersion  did  not  make  me 
any  wetter  than  I  was  or  than  I  had  been  for 
hours,  but  the  water  chilled  me;  so  I  hurried 
forward  as  rapidly  as  possible  to  warm  up. 

After  a  few  steps  the  injured  leg  suddenly 
became  helpless,  and  I  tumbled  down  in  the 
snow.  Unable  to  revive  the  leg  promptly  and 
being  very  cold  from  my  icy-water  experience, 
I  endeavored  to  start  a  fire.  Everything  was 
soaked  and  snow-covered  ;  the  snow  was  falling 
and  the  trees  dripping  water;  I  groped  about  on 
my  hands  and  one  knee,  dragging  the  paralyzed 
leg  ;  all  these  disadvantages,  along  with  chatter- 
ing teeth  and  numb  fingers,  made  my  fire-start- 
ing attempts  a  series  of  failures. 

That  night  of  raw,  primitive  life  is  worse  in 
retrospect  than  was  the  real  one.  Still  I  was 

241 


of 


deadly  in  earnest  at  the  time.  Twenty-four 
hours  of  alertness  and  activity  in  the  wilds, 
swimming  and  wading  a  torrent  of  ice-water  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  tumbling  out  into 
the  wet,  snowy  wilds  miles  from  food  and  shel- 
ter, a  crushed  foot  and  a  helpless  leg,  the  pene- 
trating, clinging  cold,  and  no  fire,  is  going  back 
to  nature  about  ten  thousand  years  farther  than 
it  is  desirable  to  go.  But  I  was  not  discouraged 
even  for  a  moment,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me 
to  complain,  though,  as  I  look  back  now,  the 
theory  of  non-resistance  appears  to  have  been 
carried  a  trifle  too  far.  At  last  the  fire  blazed. 
After  two  hours  beside  it  I  went  down  the  river 
greatly  improved.  The  snow  was  about  fifteen 
inches  deep. 

Shortly  before  daylight  I  felt  that  I  was  close 
to  a  trail  I  had  traveled,  one  that  came  to  Ci- 
marron  near  by  Court-House  Rock.  Recrossing 
the  river  on  a  fallen  log,  I  lay  down  to  sleep  be- 
neath a  shelving  rock  with  a  roaring  fire  before 
me,  sleeping  soundly  and  deeply  until  the  crash 
of  an  overturned  cliff  awakened  me.  Jumping 
to  my  feet,  I  found  the  storm  over  with  the 

242 


COURT-HOUSE    ROCK 


QWone  urif  0  a 


clouds  broken  and  drifting  back  and  forth  in  two 
strata  as  though  undecided  whether  to  go  or 
remain.  Above  a  low,  lazy  cloud,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Turret-Top,  and  turning,  beheld 
Court-House  Rock. 

The  foot  gave  no  pain  as  I  limped  along  the 
trail  I  had  so  often  followed.  Now  and  then  I 
turned  to  take  a  photograph.  The  stars  and  the 
lights  in  the  village  were  just  appearing  when  I 
limped  into  the  surgeon's  office  in  Ridgway. 


of 


<mb 


(fltafo*  of  £cen*vg 


CURING  my  first  boyish  exploring  trip  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains  I  was  impressed  with 
the  stupendous  changes  which  the  upper  slope 
of  these  mountains  had  undergone.  In  places 
were  immense  embankments  and  wild  deltas 
of  debris  that  plainly  had  come  from  else- 
where. In  other  places  the  rough  edges  of  the 
canons  and  ridges  had  been  trimmed  and  pol- 
ished; their  cliffs  and  projections  were  gone  and 
their  surfaces  had  been  swept  clean  of  all  loose 
material.  Later,  I  tried  vainly  to  account  for 
some  canon  walls  being  trimmed  and  polished 
at  the  bottom  while  their  upper  parts  were 
jagged.  In  most  canons  the  height  of  the  pol- 
ishings  above  the  bottom  was  equal  on  both 
walls,  with  the  upper  edge  of  the  polish  even  or 
level  for  the  entire  length  of  the  canon.  In  one 
canon,  in  both  floor  and  walls,  were  deep  lateral 
scratches  in  the  rocks. 

247 


of  $* 


One  day  I  found  some  polished  boulders 
perched  like  driftwood  on  the  top  of  a  polished 
rock  dome  ;  they  were  porphyry,  while  the  dome 
was  flawless  granite.  They  plainly  had  come 
from  somewhere  else.  How  they  managed  to  be 
where  they  were  was  too  much  for  me.  Mount- 
ain floods  were  terrible  but  not  wild  enough  in 
their  fiercest  rushes  to  do  this.  Upon  a  mount- 
ainside across  a  gorge  about  two  miles  distant, 
and  a  thousand  feet  above  the  perched  boulders 
on  the  dome,  I  found  a  porphyry  outcrop;  but 
this  situation  only  added  to  my  confusion.  I 
did  not  then  know  of  the  glacial  period,  or  the 
actions  of  glaciers.  It  was  a  delightful  revela- 
tion when  John  Muir  told  me  of  these  wonders. 

Much  of  the  earth's  surface,  together  with 
most  mountain-ranges,  have  gone  through  a 
glacial  period  or  periods.  There  is  extensive  and 
varied  evidence  that  the  greater  portion  of  the 
earth  has  been  carved  and  extensively  changed 
by  the  Ice  King.  Substantial  works,  blurred 
and  broken  records,  and  impressive  ruins  in 
wide  array  over  the  earth  show  long  and  active 
possession  by  the  Ice  King,  as  eloquently  as  the 

248 


(Wlafiet  of  |kmerj>  anb 


monumental  ruins  in  the  Seven  Hills  tell  of  their 
intense  association  with  man. 

Both  the  northern  and  the  southern  hemi- 
spheres have  had  their  heavy,  slow-going  floods 
of  ice  that  appear  to  have  swept  from  the  polar 
world  far  toward  the  equator.  During  the  great 
glacial  period,  which  may  have  lasted  for  ages, 
a  mountainous  flood  of  ice  overspread  America 
from  the  north  and  extended  far  down  the  Mis- 
sissippi Valley.  This  ice  may  have  been  a  mile 
or  more  in  depth.  It  utterly  changed  the  topo- 
graphy and  made  a  new  earth.  Lakes  were  filled 
and  new  ones  made.  New  landscapes  were 
formed  :  mountains  were  rubbed  down  to  plains, 
morainal  hills  were  built  upon  plains,  and 
streams  were  moved  bodily. 

It  is  probable  that  during  the  last  ice  age 
the  location  and  course  of  both  the  Ohio  and 
the  Missouri  Rivers  were  changed.  Originally  the 
Missouri  flowed  east  and  north,  probably  emp- 
tying into  a  lake  that  had  possession  of  the 
Lake  Superior  territory.  The  Ice  King  delib- 
erately shoved  this  river  hundreds  of  miles  to- 
ward the  south.  The  Ohio  probably  had  a  sim- 

249 


gpttt  of  tfy 

ilar  experience.  These  rivers  appear  to  mark 
the  "Farthest  South"  of  the  ice;  their  position 
probably  was  determined  by  the  ice.  Had  a  line 
been  traced  on  the  map  along  the  ragged  edge 
and  front  of  the  glacier  at  its  maximum  exten- 
sion, this  line  would  almost  answer  for  the  pre- 
sent position  of  the  Missouri  and  Ohio  Rivers. 

The  most  suggestive  and  revealing  words  con- 
cerning glaciers  that  I  have  ever  read  are  these 
of  John  Muir  in  "The  Mountains  of  California": 
"When  we  bear  in  mind  that  all  the  Sierra  for- 
ests are  young,  growing  upon  moraine  soil  re- 
cently deposited,  and  that  the  flank  of  the  range 
itself,  with  all  its  landscapes,  is  new-born,  re- 
cently sculptured,  and  brought  to  light  of  day 
from  beneath  the  ice  mantle  of  the  glacial  win- 
ter, then  a  thousand  lawless  mysteries  disappear 
and  broad  harmonies  take  their  places." 

"A  glacier,"  says  Judge  Junius  Henderson, 
in  the  best  definition  that  I  have  heard,  "is  a 
body  of  ice  originating  in  an  area  where  the 
annual  accumulation  of  snow  exceeds  the  dissi- 
pation, and  moving  downward  and  outward  to 
an  area  where  dissipation  exceeds  accumulation." 

250 


THE    HALLETT   GLACIER 


of 


A  glacier  may  move  forward  only  a  few  feet 
in  a  year  or  it  may  move  several  feet  in  a  day. 
It  may  be  only  a  few  hundred  feet  in  length,  or, 
as  during  the  Ice  Age,  have  an  area  of  thousands 
of  square  miles.  The  Arapahoe  Glacier  moves 
slowly,  as  do  all  small  glaciers  and  some  large 
ones.  One  year's  measured  movement  was  27.7 
feet  near  the  centre  and  11.15  near  the  edge. 
This,  too,  is  about  the  average  for  one  year,  and 
also  an  approximate  movement  for  most  small 
mountain  glaciers.  The  centre  of  the  glacier, 
meeting  less  resistance  than  the  edges,  com- 
monly flows  much  more  rapidly.  The  enormous 
Alaskan  glaciers  have  a  much  more  rapid  flow, 
many  moving  forward  five  or  more  feet  a 
day. 

A  glacier  is  the  greatest  of  eroding  agents.  It 
wears  away  the  surface  over  which  it  flows.  It 
grinds  mountains  to  dust,  transports  soil  and 
boulders,  scoops  out  lake-basins,  gives  flowing 
lines  to  landscapes.  Beyond  comprehension  we 
are  indebted  to  them  for  scenery  and  soil. 

Glaciers,  or  ice  rivers,  make  vast  changes. 
Those  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  overthrew  cliffs, 

251 


of 


pinnacles,  and  rocky  headlands.  These  in  part 
were  crushed  and  in  part  they  became  embedded 
in  the  front,  bottom,  and  sides  of  the  ice.  This 
rock-set  front  tore  into  the  sides  and  bottom  of 
its  channel  —  after  it  had  made  a  channel  !  — 
with  a  terrible,  rasping,  crushing,  and  grinding 
effect,  forced  irresistibly  forward  by  a  pressure 
of  untold  millions  of  tons.  Glaciers,  large  and 
small,  the  world  over,  have  like  characteristics 
and  influences.  To  know  one  glacier  will  enable 
one  to  enjoy  glaciers  everywhere  and  to  appre- 
ciate the  stupendous  influence  they  have  had 
upon  the  surface  of  the  earth. 

They  have  planed  down  the  surface  and  even 
reduced  mountain-ridges  to  turtle  outlines.  In 
places  the  nose  of  the  glacier  was  thrust  with 
such  enormous  pressure  against  a  mountainside 
that  the  ice  was  forced  up  the  slope  which  it 
flowed  across  and  then  descended  on  the  oppo- 
site side.  Sustained  by  constant  and  measure- 
less pressure,  years  of  fearful  and  incessant  ap- 
plication of  this  weighty,  flowing,  planing, 
ploughing  sandpaper  wore  the  mountain  down. 
In  time,  too,  the  small  ragged-edged,  V-shaped 

252 


of 


ravines  became  widened,  deepened,  and  ex- 
tended into  enormous  U-shaped  glaciated  gorges. 

Glaciers  have  gouged  or  scooped  many  basins 
in  the  solid  rock.  These  commonly  are  made  at 
the  bottom  of  a  deep  slope  where  the  descending 
ice  bore  heavily  on  the  lever  or  against  a  reverse 
incline.  The  size  of  the  basin  thus  made  is  de- 
termined by  the  size,  width,  and  weight  of  the 
glacier  and  by  other  factors.  In  the  Rocky 
Mountains  these  excavations  vary  in  size  from 
a  few  acres  to  a  few  thousand.  They  became 
lake-basins  on  the  disappearance  of  the  ice. 

More  than  a  thousand  lakes  of  glacial  origin 
dot  the  upper  portions  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
of  Colorado.  Most  of  these  are  above  the  alti- 
tude of  nine  thousand  feet,  and  the  largest, 
Grand  Lake,  is  three  miles  in  length.  Landslides 
and  silt  have  filled  many  of  the  old  glacier  lake 
basins,  and  these,  overgrown  with  grass  and 
sedge,  are  called  glacier  meadows. 

Vast  was  the  quantity  of  material  picked  up 
and  transported  by  these  glaciers.  Mountains 
were  moved  piecemeal,  and  ground  to  boulders, 
pebbles,  and  rock-flour  in  the  moving.  In  addi- 

253 


of 


tion  to  the  material  which  the  glacier  gathered 
up  and  excavated,  it  also  carried  the  wreckage 
brought  down  by  landslides  and  the  eroded 
matter  poured  upon  it  by  streams  from  the 
heights.  Most  of  the  material  which  falls  upon 
the  top  of  the  upper  end  of  the  glacier  ulti- 
mately works  its  way  to  the  bottom,  where, 
with  the  other  gathered  material,  it  is  pressed 
against  the  bottom  and  sides  and  used  as  a  cut- 
ting or  grinding  tool  until  worn  to  a  powder  or 
pebbles. 

Train-loads  of  debris  often  accumulate  upon 
the  top  of  the  glacier.  On  the  lower  course  this 
often  is  a  hundred  feet  or  more  above  the  sur- 
face, and  as  the  glacier  descends  and  shrivels, 
enormous  quantities  of  this  rocky  debris  fall  off 
the  sides  and,  in  places,  form  enormous  embank- 
ments; these  often  closely  parallel  long  stretches 
of  the  glacier  like  river  levees. 

The  large  remainder  of  the  material  is  carried 
to  the  end  of  the  glacier,  where  the  melting  ice 
unloads  and  releases  it.  This  accumulation, 
which  corresponds  to  the  delta  of  a  river,  is  the 
terminal  moraine.  For  years  the  bulk  of  the  ice 

254 


of 


may  melt  away  at  about  the  same  place;  this 
accumulates  an  enormous  amount  of  debris;  an 
advance  of  the  ice  may  plough  through  this  and 
repile  it,  or  the  retreat  of  the  ice  or  a  changed 
direction  of  its  flow  may  pile  the  debris  else- 
where and  over  wide  areas.  Many  of  these  ter- 
minal moraines  are  an  array  of  broken  embank- 
ments, small  basin-like  holes  and  smooth,  level 
spaces.  The  debris  of  these  moraines  embraces 
rock-flour,  gravel,  pebbles,  a  few  angular  rock- 
masses,  and  enormous  quantities  of  many-sized 
boulders,  —  rocks  rounded  by  the  grind  of  the 
glacial  mill. 

Strange  freight,  of  unknown  age,  these  creep- 
ing ice  rivers  bring  down.  One  season  the  frozen 
carcass  of  a  mountain  sheep  was  taken  from  the 
ice  at  the  end  of  the  Arapahoe  Glacier.  If  this 
sheep  fell  into  a  crevasse  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
glacier,  its  carcass  probably  had  been  in  the  ice 
for  more  than  a  century.  Human  victims,  too, 
have  been  strangely  handled  by  glaciers.  It 
appears  that  in  1820  Dr.  Hamil  and  a  party 
of  climbers  were  struck  by  a  snowslide  on  the 
slope  of  Mont  Blanc.  One  escaped  with  his  life, 

255 


of  10* 


while  the  others  were  swept  down  into  a  cre- 
vasse and  buried  so  deeply  in  the  snow  and 
ice  that  their  bodies  could  not  be  recovered. 
Scientists  said  that  at  the  rate  the  glacier  was 
moving  it  would  give  up  its  dead  after  forty 
years.  Far  down  the  mountain  forty-one  years 
afterward,  the  ice  gave  up  its  victims.  A  writer 
has  founded  on  this  incident  an  interesting 
story,  in  which  the  bodies  are  recovered  in  an 
excellent  state  of  preservation,  and  an  old  wo- 
man with  sunken  cheeks  and  gray  hair  clasps 
the  youthful  body  of  her  lover  of  long  ago,  the 
guide. 

Where  morainal  debris  covers  thousands  of 
acres,  it  is  probable  that  valuable  mineral  veins 
were  in  some  cases  covered,  prospecting  pre- 
vented, and  mineral  wealth  lost;  but  on  the 
other  hand,  the  erosion  done  by  the  glacier,  often 
cutting  down  several  hundred  feet,  has  in  many 
cases  uncovered  leads  which  otherwise  prob- 
ably would  have  been  left  buried  beyond  search. 
Then,  too,  millions  of  dollars  of  placer  gold  have 
been  washed  from  moraines. 

In  addition  to  the  work  of  making  and  giving 
256 


of 


anb 


the  mountains  flowing  lines  of  beauty,  the  gla- 
ciers added  inconceivably  to  the  richness  of  the 
earth's  resources  by  creating  vast  estates  of  soil. 
It  is  probable  that  glaciers  have  supplied  one 
half  of  the  productive  areas  of  the  earth  with 
soil;  the  mills  of  the  glaciers  have  ground  as 
much  rock-flour  —  soil  —  for  the  earth  as  wind, 
frost,  heat,  and  rain,  —  all  the  weathering  forces. 
This  flour  and  other  coarser  glacial  grindings 
were  quickly  changed  by  the  chemistry  of  Na- 
ture into  plant-food,  —  the  staff  of  life  for  for- 
ests and  flowers. 

Glaciers  have  not  only  ground  the  soil  but  in 
many  places  have  carried  this  and  spread  it  out 
hundreds  of  miles  from  the  place  where  the 
original  raw  rocks  were  obtained.  Wind  and 
water  have  done  an  enormous  amount  of  work 
sorting  out  the  soil  in  moraines  and,  leaving 
the  boulders  behind,  this  soil  was  scattered  and 
sifted  far  and  wide  to  feed  the  hungry  plant-life. 

At  last  the  Glacial  Winter  ended,  and  each 
year  more  snow  melted  and  evaporated  than 
fell.  Snow-line  retreated  up  the  slopes  and  fin- 
ally became  broken,  even  in  the  heights.  To- 

257 


gpttt  of  ffo 

day,  in  the  Rockies,  there  are  only  a  dozen  or  so 
small  glaciers,  mere  fragments  of  the  once  great 
ice  cap  which  originally  covered  deeply  all  the 
higher  places  and  slopes, 'and  extended  unbroken 
for  hundreds  of  miles,  pierced  strangely  with  a 
few  sharp  peaks. 

The  small  remaining  glaciers  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  lie  in  sheltered  basins  or  cirques  in 
the  summits  and  mostly  above  the  altitude  of 
thirteen  thousand  feet.,  These  are  built  and  sup- 
plied by  the  winds  which  carry  and  sweep  snow 
to  them  from  off  thousands  of  acres  of  treeless, 
barren  summits.  The  present  climate  of  these 
mountains  is  very  different  from  what  it  was 
ages  ago.  Then  for  a  time  the  annual  snowfall 
was  extremely  heavy.  Each  year  the  sun  and 
the  wind  removed  only  a  part  of  the  snow  which 
fell  during  the  year.  This  icy  remainder  was 
added  to  the  left-over  of  preceding  years  until 
the  accumulation  was  of  vast  depth  and  weight. 

On  the  summit  slopes  this  snow  appears  to 
have  been  from  a  few  hundred  to  a  few  thousand 
feet  deep.  Softened  from  the  saturation  of  melt- 
ing and  compressed  from  its  own  weight,  it  be- 

258 


(Nla&r  of  ^ornery  anb 

came  a  stratum  of  ice.  This  overlay  the  sum- 
mit of  the  main  ranges,  and  was  pierced  by  only 
a  few  of  the  higher,  sharper  peaks  which  were 
sufficiently  steep  to  be  stripped  of  snow  by 
snowslides  and  the  wind. 

The  weight  of  this  superimposed  icy  stratum 
was  immense;  it  was  greater  than  the  bottom 
layers  could  support.  Ice  is  plastic  —  rubbery 
—  if  sufficient  pressure  or  weight  be  applied. 
Under  the  enormous  pressure  the  bottom  layers 
started  to  crawl  or  flow  from  beneath  like 
squeezed  dough.  This  forced  mass  moved  out- 
ward and  downward  in  the  direction  of  the  least 
resistance,  —  down  the  slope.  Thus  a  glacier 
is  conceived  and  born. 

Numbers  of  these  glaciers  —  immense  ser- 
pents and  tongues  of  ice  —  extended  down  the 
slopes,  in  places  miles  beyond  the  line  of  per- 
petual snow.  Some  of  these  were  miles  in  length, 
a  thousand  or  more  feet  wide,  and  hundreds  of 
feet  deep,  and  they  forced  and  crushed  their 
way  irresistibly.  It  is  probable  they  had  a  sus- 
tained, continuous  flow  for  centuries. 

A  glacier  is  one  of  the  natural  wonders  of  the 
259 


of 


world  and  well  might  every  one  pay  a  visit  to 
one  of  these  great  earth-sculpturers.  The  time 
to  visit  a  glacier  is  during  late  summer,  when  the 
snows  of  the  preceding  winter  are  most  com- 
pletely removed  from  the  surface.  With  the 
snows  removed,  the  beauty  of  the  ice  and  its 
almost  stratified  make-up  are  revealed.  The 
snow,  too,  conceals  the  yawning  bergschlunds 
and  the  dangerous,  splendid  crevasses.  A  visit 
to  one  of  these  ponderous,  patient,  and  effect- 
ive monsters  is  not  without  danger;  concealed 
crevasses,  or  thinly  covered  icy  caverns,  or 
recently  deposited  and  insecurely  placed  boul- 
ders on  the  moraines  are  potent  dangers  that 
require  vigilance  to  avoid.  However,  the  care- 
ful explorer  will  find  one  of  these  places  far  safer 
than  the  city's  chaotic  and  crowded  street. 

For  the  study  of  old  glacier  records  few  places 
can  equal  the  Estes  Park  district  in  Colorado. 
The  Arapahoe,  on  Arapahoe  Peak,  Colorado,  is 
an  excellent  glacier  to  visit.  It  is  characteristic 
and  is  easy  of  access.  It  is  close  to  civilization,  — 
within  a  few  miles  of  a  railroad,  —  is  comprehen- 
sively situated,  and  is  amid  some  of  the  grandest 

260 


(Tfta&r  of  £kenerj>  anb 

scenery  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  It  has  been 
mapped  and  studied,  and  its  rate  of  movement 
and  many  other  things  concerning  it  are  accu- 
rately known.  It  is  the  abstract  and  brief  chron- 
icle of  the  Ice  Age,  a  key  to  all  the  glacier  ways 
and  secrets. 

In  the  Arapahoe  Glacier  one  may  see  the 
cirque  in  which  the  snow  is  deposited  or  drifted 
by  the  wind ;  and  the  bergschlund-yawn  — 
crack  of  separation  —  made  by  glacier  ice  where 
it  moves  away  from  the  neve  or  snowy  ice  above. 
In  walking  over  the  ice  in  summer  one  may  see 
or  descend  into  the  crevasses.  These  deep,  wide 
cracks,  miniature  canons,  are  caused  by  the  ice 
flowing  over  inequalities  in  the  surface.  At  the 
end  of  this  glacier  one  may  see  the  terminal 
moraine,  —  a  raw,  muddy  pile  of  powdered, 
crushed,  and  rounded  rocks.  Farther  along 
down  the  slope  one  may  see  the  lakes  that  were 
made,  the  rocks  that  were  polished,  and  the 
lateral  moraine  deposited  by  the  glacier  in  its 
bigger  days,  —  times  when  the  Ice  King  almost 
conquered  the  earth. 

In  the  Rocky  Mountains  the  soil  and  mo- 
261 


of 


rainal  debris  were  transported  only  a  few  miles, 
while  the  Wisconsin  and  Iowa  glaciers  brought 
thousands  of  acres  of  rich  surfacing,  now  on  the 
productive  farms  of  Ohio,  Illinois,  and  Iowa, 
from  places  hundreds  of  miles  to  the  north  in 
Canada.  In  the  Rocky  Mountains  most  of  the 
forests  are  growing  in  soil  or  moraines  that  were 
ground  and  distributed  by  glaciers.  Thus  the 
work  of  the  glaciers  has  made  the  earth  and  the 
mountains  far  more  useful  in  addition  to  giving 
them  gentler  influences,  —  charming  lakes  and 
flowing  landscape  lines.  It  is  wonderful  that 
the  mighty  worker  and  earth-shaper,  the  Ice 
King,  should  have  used  snowflakes  for  edge- 
tools,  millstones,  and  crushing  stamps! 

To  know  the  story  of  the  Ice  King  —  to  be 
able  to  understand  and  restore  the  conditions 
that  made  lakes  and  headlands,  moraines  and 
fertile  fields  —  will  add  mightily  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  visit  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the 
Alps,  the  coasts  and  mountains  of  Norway  and 
New  England,  Alaska's  unrivaled  glacier  realm, 
or  the  extraordinary  ice  sculpturing  in  the  Yo- 
semite  National  Park. 

262 


Qtlaftet  of  £kenerj>  anb 

Edward  Orton,  Jr.,  formerly  State  Geologist 
of  Ohio,  who  spent  weeks  toiling  over  and  map- 
ping the  Mills  Moraine  on  the  east  slope  of 
Long's  Peak,  gave  a  glimpse  of  what  one  may 
feel  and  enjoy  from  nature  investigation  in  his 
closing  remarks  concerning  this  experience.  He 
said,  "If  one  adds  to  the  physical  pleasures  of 
mountaineering,  the  intellectual  delight  of  look- 
ing with  the  seeing  eye,  of  explaining,  interpret- 
ing, and  understanding  the  gigantic  forces 
which  have  wrought  these  wonders;  if  by  these 
studies  one's  vision  may  be  extended  past  the 
sublime  beauties  of  the  present  down  through 
the  dim  ages  of  the  past  until  each  carved  and 
bastioned  peak  tells  a  romance  above  words;  if 
by  communion  with  this  greatness,  one's  soul  is 
uplifted  and  attuned  into  fuller  accord  with  the 
great  cosmic  forces  of  which  we  are  the  higher 
manifestation,  then  mountaineering  becomes 
not  a  pastime  but  an  inspiration." 


(gbtng  ©ap  at 


o  spend  a  day  in  the  rain  at  the  source  of 
a  stream  was  an  experience  I  had  long 
desired,  for  the  behavior  of  the  waters  in 
collecting  and  hurrying  down  slopes  would 
doubtless  show  some  of  Nature's  interesting 
ways.  On  the  Rockies  no  spot  seemed  quite  so 
promising  as  the  watershed  on  which  the  St. 
Vrain  made  its  start  to  the  sea.  This  had  steep 
and  moderate  slopes,  rock  ledges,  and  deep 
soil;  and  about  one  half  of  its  five  thousand 
acres  was  covered  with  primeval  forest,  while 
the  remainder  had  been  burned  almost  to  bar- 
renness by  a  fierce  forest  fire.  Here  were  varied 
and  contrasting  conditions  to  give  many  moods 
to  the  waters,  and  all  this  display  could  easily 
be  seen  during  one  active  day. 

June  was  the  month  chosen,  since  in  the  re- 
gion of  the  St.  Vrain  that  is  the  rainiest  part  of 
the  year.  After  thoroughly  exploring  the  ground 

267 


of 


I  concluded  to  go  down  the  river  a  few  miles 
and  make  headquarters  in  a  new  sawmill.  There 
I  spent  delightful  days  in  gathering  information 
concerning  tree-growth  and  in  making  bio- 
graphical studies  of  several  veteran  logs,  as 
the  saw  ripped  open  and  revealed  their  life- 
scrolls. 

One  morning  I  was  awakened  by  the  pelting 
and  thumping  of  large,  widely  scattered  rain- 
drops on  the  roof  of  the  mill.  Tree  stories  were 
forgotten,  and  I  rushed  outdoors.  The  sky  was 
filled  with  the  structureless  gloom  of  storm- 
cloud,  and  the  heavy,  calm  air  suggested  rain. 
"We'll  get  a  wetting  such  as  you  read  of,  to- 
day!" declared  the  sawmill  foreman,  as  I  made 
haste  to  start  for  the  wilds. 

I  plunged  into  the  woods  and  went  eagerly 
up  the  dim,  steep  mountain  trail  which  kept 
close  company  with  the  river  St.  Vrain.  Any 
doubts  concerning  the  strength  of  the  storm 
were  quickly  washed  away.  My  dry-weather 
clothes  were  swiftly  soaked,  but  with  notebook 
safe  under  my  hat,  I  hastened  to  gain  the 
"forks"  as  soon  as  possible,  enjoying  the  gen- 

268 


eral  downpour  and  the  softened  noise  that  it 
made  through  the  woods.  I  had  often  been  out 
in  rains  on  the  Rockies,  but  this  one  was  wet- 
ting the  earth  with  less  effort  than  any  I  had 
ever  experienced.  For  half  an  hour  no  air 
stirred;  then,  while  crossing  a  small  irregular 
opening  in  the  woods,  I  was  caught  in  a  storm- 
centre  of  wrangling  winds  and  waters,  and  now 
and  then  their  weight  would  almost  knock  me 
over,  until,  like  a  sapling,  I  bowed,  streaming, 
in  the  storm.  The  air  was  full  of  "water-dust," 
and,  once  across  the  open,  I  made  haste  to  hug 
a  tree,  hoping  to  find  a  breath  of  air  that  was 
not  saturated  to  strangulation. 

Neither  bird  nor  beast  had  been  seen,  nor  did 
I  expect  to  come  upon  any,  unless  by  chance 
my  movements  drove  one  from  its  refuge;  but 
while  I  sat  on  a  sodden  log,  reveling  in  elemental 
moods  and  sounds,  a  water-ouzel  came  flying 
along.  He  alighted  on  a  boulder  which  the  on- 
sweeping  stream  at  my  feet  seemed  determined 
to  drown  or  dislodge,  and,  making  his  usual 
courtesies,  he  began  to  sing.  His  melody  is 
penetrating;  but  so  sustained  was  the  combined 

269 


of  $* 


roar  of  the  stream  and  the  storm  that  there  came 
to  me  only  a  few  notes  of  his  energetic  nesting- 
time  song.  His  expressive  attitudes  and  gestures 
were  so  harmoniously  united  with  these,  how- 
ever, that  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  was 
singing  with  all  his  might/  to  the  water,  the  woods, 
and  me. 

Keeping  close  to  the  stream,  I  continued  my 
climb.  My  ear  now  caught  the  feeble  note  of  a 
robin,  who  was  making  discouraged  and  discon- 
solate efforts  at  song,  and  it  seemed  to  issue  from 
a  throat  clogged  with  wet  cotton.  Plainly  the 
world  was  not  beautiful  to  him,  and  the  attempt 
at  music  was  made  to  kill  time  or  cheer  himself 
up. 

The  robin  and  the  ouzel,  —  how  I  love  them 
both,  and  yet  how  utterly  unlike  they  are!  The 
former  usually  chooses  so  poor  a  building-site, 
anchors  its  nest  so  carelessly,  or  builds  so  clum- 
sily, that  the  precious  contents  are  often  spilled 
or  the  nest  discovered  by  some  enemy.  His 
mental  make-up  is  such  that  he  is  prone  to  pre- 
dict the  worst  possible  outcome  of  any  new 
situation.  The  ouzel,  on  the  other  hand,  is  sweet 

270 


Ql  (Raing 

and  serene.  He  builds  his  nest  upon  a  rock  and 
tucks  it  where  search  and  sharp  eyes  may  not 
find  it.  He  appears  indifferent  to  the  comings 
and  goings  of  beast  or  man,  enjoys  all  weathers, 
seems  entranced  with  life,  and  may  sing  every 
day  of  the  year. 

Up  in  the  lower  margin  of  the  Engelmann 
spruce  forest  the  wind  now  ceased  and  the 
clouds  began  to  conserve  their  waters.  The  ter- 
ritory which  I  was  about  to  explore  is  on  the 
eastern  summit  slopes  of  the  Rockies,  between 
the  altitudes  of  ninety-five  hundred  and  twelve 
thousand  feet.  Most  of  these  slopes  were  steep, 
and  much  of  the  soil  had  a  basis  of  disintegrated 
granite.  The  forested  and  the  treeless  slopes  had 
approximately  equal  areas,  and  were  much  alike 
in  regard  to  soil,  inclination,  and  altitude,  while 
the  verdure  of  both  areas  before  the  forest  fire 
had  been  almost  identical.  The  St.  Vrain  is 
formed  by  two  branches  flowing  northeasterly 
and  southeasterly,  the  former  draining  the  tree- 
less area  and  the  latter  the  forested  one.  Be- 
low the  junction,  the  united.waters  sweep  away 
through  the  woods,  but  at  it,  and  a  short  dis- 

271 


of 


tance  above,  the  fire  had  destroyed  every  living 
thing. 

At  the  forks  I  found  many  things  of  interest. 
The  branch  with  dark  waters  from  the  barren 
slopes  was  already  swollen  to  many  times  its 
normal  volume  and  was  thick  with  sediment 
from  the  fire-scarred  region.  The  stream  with 
white  waters  from  the  forest  had  risen  just  a 
trifle,  and  there  was  only  a  slight  stain  visible. 
These  noticeable  changes  were  produced  by  an 
hour  of  rain.  I  dipped  several  canfuls  from  the 
deforested  drainage  fork,  and  after  each  had 
stood  half  a  minute  the  water  was  poured  off. 
The  average  quantity  of  sediment  remaining 
was  one  fifth  of  a  canful,  while  the  white  water 
from  the  forested  slope  deposited  only  a  thin 
layer  on  the  bottom  of  the  can.  It  was  evident 
that  the  forest  was  absorbing  and  delaying  the 
water  clinging  to  its  soil  and  sediment.  In  fact, 
both  streams  carried  so  much  suggestive  and 
alluring  news  concerning  storm  effects  on  the 
slopes  above  that  I  determined  to  hasten  on  in 
order  to  climb  over  and  watch  them  while  they 
were  dashed  and  drenched  with  rain. 

272 


® 


Planning  to  return  and  give  more  attention 
to  the  waters  of  both  branches  at  this  place,  I 
started  to  inspect  first  the  forested  sides.  The 
lower  of  these  slopes  were  tilted  with  a  twenty 
to  twenty-five  per  cent  grade,  and  covered  with 
a  primeval  Engelmann  spruce  forest  of  tall, 
crowding  trees,  the  age  of  which,  as  I  had  learned 
during  previous  visits,  was  only  a  few  years  less 
than  two  centuries. 

The  forest  floor  was  covered  with  a  thick  car- 
pet of  litter,  —  one  which  the  years  had  woven 
out  of  the  wreckage  of  limbs  and  leaves.  This, 
though  loosely,  coarsely  woven,  has  a  firm  feel- 
ing when  trodden  during  dry  weather.  To-day 
however,  the  forest  floor  seemed  recently  up- 
holstered. It  is  absorbent;  hence  the  water  had 
filled  the  interstices  and  given  elasticity.  I 
cleared  away  some  of  this  litter  and  found  that 
it  had  an  average  depth  of  fifteen  inches.  The 
upper  third  lay  loosely,  but  below  it  the  weave 
was  more  compact  and  much  finer  than  that  on 
or  near  the  surface.  I  judged  that  two  inches  of 
rain  had  fallen  and  had  soaked  to  an  average 
depth  of  eight  inches.  It  was  interesting  to 

273 


of  $*  (gobies 

watch  the  water  ooze  from  the  broken  walls  of 
this  litter,  or  humus,  on  the  upper  sides  of  the 
holes  which  I  dug  down  into  it.  One  of  these 
was  close  to  a  bare,  tilted  slope  of  granite.  As 
I  stood  watching  the  water  slowly  dripping  from 
the  broken  humus  and  rapidly  racing  down  the 
rocks,  the  thought  came  to  me  that,  with  the 
same  difference  in  speed,  the  run-off  from  the  de- 
forested land  might  be  breaking  through  the 
levees  at  New  Orleans  before  the  water  from 
these  woods  escaped  and  got  down  as  far  as  the 
sawmill. 

The  forest  might  well  proclaim:  "As  long  as  I 
stand,  my  countless  roots  shall  clutch  and  clasp 
the  soil  like  eagles'  claws  and  hold  it  on  these 
slopes.  I  shall  add  to  this  soil  by  annually  cre- 
ating more.  I  shall  heave  it  with  my  growing 
roots,  loosen  and  cover  it  with  litter  rugs,  and 
maintain  a  porous,  sievelike  surface  that  will 
catch  the  rain  and  so  delay  and  distribute  these 
waters  that  at  the  foot  of  my  slope  perennial 
springs  will  ever  flow  quietly  toward  the  sea. 
Destroy  me,  and  on  stormy  days  the  waters 
may  wash  away  the  unanchored  soil  as  they  run 

274 


unresisted  down  the  slopes,  to  form  a  black, 
destructive  flood  in  the  home-dotted  valley 
below." 

The  summit  of  the  forested  slope  was  com- 
paratively smooth  where  I  gained  it,  and  con- 
tained a  few  small,  ragged-edged,  grassy  spaces 
among  its  spruces  and  firs.  The  wind  was  blow- 
ing and  the  low  clouds  pressed,  hurried  along 
the  ground,  whirled  through  the  grassy  places, 
and  were  driven  and  dragged  swiftly  among  the 
trees.  I  was  in  the  lower  margin  of  cloud,  and  it 
was  like  a  wet,  gray  night.  Nothing  could  be 
seen  clearly,  even  at  a  few  feet,  and  every 
breath  I  took  was  like  swallowing  a  saturated 
sponge. 

These  conditions  did  not  last  long,  for  a  wind- 
surge  completely  rent  the  clouds  and  gave  me  a 
glimpse  of  the  blue,  sun-filled  sky.  I  hurried 
along  the  ascending  trend  of  the  ridge,  hoping 
to  get  above  the  clouds,  but  they  kept  rising, 
and  after  I  had  traveled  half  a  mile  or  more  I 
gave  it  up.  Presently  I  was  impressed  with  the 
height  of  an  exceptionally  tall  spruce  that  stood 
in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  its  companions.  At 

275 


gyttt  of  $e  (Koc&es 

once  I  decided  to  climb  it  and  have  a  look  over 
the  country  and  cloud  from  its  swaying  top. 

When  half  way  up,  the  swift  manner  in  which 
the  tree  was  tracing  seismographic  lines  through 
the  air  awakened  my  interest  in  the  trunk  that 
was  holding  me.  Was  it  sound  or  not?  At  the 
foot  appearances  gave  it  good  standing.  The 
exercising  action  of  ordinary  winds  probably 
toughens  the  wood  fibres  of  young  trees,  but 
this  one  was  no  longer  young,  and  the  wind  was 
high.  I  held  an  ear  against  the  trunk  and  heard  a 
humming  whisper  which  told  only  of  soundness. 
A  blow  with  broad  side  of  my  belt  axe  told  me 
that  it  rang  true  and  would  stand  the  storm  and 
myself. 

The  sound  brought  a  spectator  from  a  spruce 
with  broken  top  that  stood  almost  within  touch- 
ing distance  of  me.  In  this  tree  was  a  squirrel 
home,  and  my  axe  had  brought  the  owner  from 
his  hole.  What  an  angry,  comic  midget  he  was, 
this  Fremont  squirrel !  With  fierce  whiskers  and 
a  rattling,  choppy,  jerky  chatter,  he  came  out 
on  a  dead  limb  that  pointed  toward  me,  and 
made  a  rush  as  though  to  annihilate  me  or  to 

276 


cause  me  to  take  hurried  flight;  but  as  I  held 
on  he  found  himself  more  "up  in  the  air"  than  I 
was.  He  stopped  short,  shut  off  his  chatter,  and 
held  himself  at  close  range  facing  me,  a  picture 
of  furious  study.  This  scene  occurred  in  a  brief 
period  that  was  undisturbed  by  either  wind  or 
rain.  We  had  a  good  look  at  each  other.  He  was 
every  inch  alive,  but  for  a  second  or  two  both 
his  place  and  expression  were  fixed.  He  sat  with 
eyes  full  of  telling  wonder  and  with  face  that 
showed  intense  curiosity.  A  dash  of  wind  and 
rain  ended  our  interview,  for  after  his  explosive 
introduction  neither  of  us  had  uttered  a  sound. 
He  fled  into  his  hole,  and  from  this  a  moment 
later  thrust  forth  his  head;  but  presently  he 
subsided  and  withdrew.  As  I  began  to  climb 
again,  I  heard  mufHed  expletives  from  within  his 
tree  that  sounded  plainly  like  "Fool,  fool,  fool!" 
The  wind  had  tried  hard  to  dislodge  me,  but, 
seated  on  the  small  limbs  and  astride  the  slender 
top,  I  held  on.  The  tree  shook  and  danced; 
splendidly  we  charged,  circled,  looped,  and  an- 
gled; such  wild,  exhilarating  joy  I  have  not  else- 
where experienced.  At  all  times  I  could  feel  in 

277 


of 


the  trunk  a  subdued  quiver  or  vibration,  and  I 
half  believe  that  a  tree's  greatest  joys  are  the 
dances  it  takes  with  the  winds. 

Conditions  changed  while  I  rocked  there ;  the 
clouds  rose,  the  wind  calmed,  and  the  rain 
ceased  to  fall.  Thunder  occasionally  rumbled, 
but  I  was  completely  unprepared  for  the  blind- 
ing flash  and  explosive  crash  of  the  bolt  that 
came.  The  violent  concussion,  the  wave  of  air 
which  spread  from  it  like  an  enormous,  invisible 
breaker,  almost  knocked  me  over.  A  tall  fir  that 
stood  within  fifty  feet  of  me  was  struck,  the  top 
whirled  off,  and  the  trunk  split  in  rails  to  the 
ground.  I  quickly  went  back  to  earth,  for  I  was 
eager  to  see  the  full  effect  of  the  lightning's 
stroke  on  that  tall,  slender  evergreen  cone. 
With  one  wild,  mighty  stroke,  in  a  second  or 
less,  the  century-old  tree  tower  was  wrecked. 

Leaving  this  centenarian,  I  climbed  up  the 
incline  a  few  hundred  feet  higher  and  started 
out  through  the  woods  to  the  deforested  side. 
Though  it  was  the  last  week  in  June,  it  was  not 
long  before  I  was  hampered  with  snow.  Ragged 
patches,  about  six  feet  deep,  covered  more  than 

278 


half  of  the  forest  floor.  This  was  melting  rap- 
idly and  was  "rotten"  from  the  rain,  so  that  I 
quickly  gave  up  the  difficult  task  of  fording  it 
and  made  an  abrupt  descent  until  below  the 
snow-line,  where  I  again  headed  for  the  fire- 
cleared  slopes. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  wood,  the  storm  seemed 
to  begin  all  over  again.  The  rain  at  first  fell 
steadily,  but  soon  slackened,  and  the  lower 
cloud-margins  began  to  drift  through  the  woods. 
Just  before  reaching  the  barrens  I  paused  to 
breathe  in  a  place  where  the  trees  were  well 
spaced,  and  found  myself  facing  a  large  one 
with  deeply  furrowed  bark  and  limbs  plentifully 
covered  with  short,  fat,  blunt  needles.  I  was  at 
first  puzzled  to  know  what  kind  it  was,  but  at 
last  I  recognized  it  as  a  Douglas  fir  or  "Oregon 
pine."  I  had  never  before  seen  this  species  at  so 
great  an  altitude,  — approximately  ten  thousand 
feet.  It  was  a  long  distance  from  home,  but  it 
stood  so  contentedly  in  the  quiet  rain  that  I  half 
expected  to  hear  it  remark,  "The  traditions 
of  my  family  are  mostly  associated  with  gray, 
growing  days  of  this  kind." 

279 


of 


Out  on  the  barren  slopes  the  few  widely 
scattered,  fire-killed,  fire-preserved  trees  with 
broken  arms  stood  partly  concealed  and  lonely 
in  the  mists.  After  zigzagging  for  a  time  over  the 
ruins,  I  concluded  to  go  at  once  to  the  upper- 
most side  and  thence  down  to  the  forks.  But 
the  rain  was  again  falling,  and  the  clouds  were 
so  low  and  heavy  that  the  standing  skeleton 
trees  could  not  be  seen  unless  one  was  within 
touching  distance.  There  was  no  wind  or  light- 
ning, only  a  warm,  steady  rain.  It  was,  in  fact, 
so  comfortable  that  I  sat  down  to  enjoy  it  until 
a  slackening  should  enable  me  better  to  see  the 
things  I  most  wanted  to  observe. 

There  was  no  snow  about,  and  three  weeks 
before  at  the  same  place  I  had  found  only  one 
small  drift  which  was  shielded  and  half-covered 
with  shelving  rock.  The  dry  Western  air  is  in- 
satiable and  absorbs  enormous  quantities  of 
water,  and,  as  the  Indians  say,  "eats  snow." 
The  snowless  area  about  me  was  on  a  similar 
slope  and  at  about  the  same  altitude  as  the 
snow-filled  woods,  so  the  forest  is  evidently  an 
effective  check  upon  the  ravenous  winds. 

28Q 


(Rainy 


Now  the  rain  almost  ceased,  and  I  began  to 
descend.  The  upper  gentle  slopes  were  com- 
pletely covered  with  a  filmy  sheet  of  clear  water 
which  separated  into  tattered  torrents  and  took 
on  color.  These  united  and  grew  in  size  as  they 
progressed  from  the  top,  and  each  was  separated 
from  its  companions  by  ridges  that  widened  and 
gulches  that  deepened  as  down  the  sides  they 
went.  The  waters  carried  most  of  the  eroded 
material  away,  but  here  and  there,  where  they 
crossed  a  comparatively  level  stretch,  small  de- 
posits of  gravel  were  made  or  sandbars  and  del- 
tas formed. 

Occasionally  I  saw  miniature  landslides,  and, 
hoping  for  a  larger  one  to  move,  I  hurried  down- 
ward. Knowing  that  the  soil  is  often  deep  at  the 
foot  of  crags  on  account  of  contributions  from 
above,  together  with  the  protection  from  erosion 
which  the  cliffs  gave,  I  endeavored  to  find  such  a 
place.  While  searching,  I  had  occasion  to  jump 
from  a  lower  ledge  on  a  cliff  to  the  deposit  below. 
The  distance  to  the  slope  and  its  real  pitch  were 
minimized  by  the  mists.  After  shooting  through 
the  air  for  at  least  thrice  the  supposed  distance 

281 


of  $t  (Rocftto 


to  the  slope,  I  struck  heavily  and  loosened  sev- 
eral rods  of  a  landslide.  I  tumbled  off  the  back 
of  it,  but  not  before  its  rock  points  had  made 
some  impressions. 

I  sought  safety  and  a  place  of  lookout  on  a 
crag,  and  picked  bits  of  granite  gravel  from  my 
anatomy.  Presently  I  heard  a  muffled  creaking, 
and  looked  up  to  see  a  gigantic  landslide  start- 
ing. At  first  it  moved  slowly,  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate, then  slid  faster,  with  its  stone-filled  front 
edge  here  and  there  doubling  and  rolling  under  ; 
finally  the  entire  mass  broke  into  yawning, 
ragged  fissures  as  it  shot  forward  and  plunged 
over  a  cliff.  Waiting  until  most  of  the  strag- 
gling, detached  riffraff  had  followed,  I  hastened 
to  examine  the  place  just  evacuated.  In  getting 
down  I  disturbed  a  ground-hog  from  his  rock 
point,  and  found  that  he  was  in  the  same  atti- 
tude and  position  I  had  seen  him  holding  just 
before  the  slide  started,  so  that  the  exhibition 
had  merely  caused  him  to  move  his  eyes  a 
little. 

In  the  cracks  and  crevices  of  the  glaciated 
rock-slope  from  which  this  mass  had  slid,  there 

282 


(Rainj> 


were  broken,  half  -decayed  roots  and  numerous 
marks  which  showed  where  other  roots  had  held. 
It  seems  probable  that  if  the  grove  which  sus- 
tained them  had  not  been  destroyed  by  fire, 
they  in  turn  would  have  anchored  and  held  se- 
curely the  portion  of  land  which  had  just  slipped 
away. 

I  went  over  the  lower  slopes  of  the  burned 
area  and  had  a  look  at  numerous  new-made 
gullies,  and  near  the  forks  I  measured  a  large 
one.  It  was  more  than  a  hundred  feet  long, 
two  to  four  feet  wide,  and,  over  the  greater 
part  of  its  length,  more  than  four  feet  deep.  It 
was  eroded  by  the  late  downpour,  and  its  mis- 
placed material,  after  being  deposited  by  the 
waters,  would  of  itself  almost  call  for  an  in- 
crease of  the  river  and  harbor  appropriations. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  storm  break- 
ing, I  stopped  and  watched  the  largest  torrent 
from  the  devastated  region  pour  over  a  cliff. 
This  waterfall  more  nearly  represented  a  lique- 
fied landslide,  for  it  was  burdened  with  sedi- 
ment and  spoils.  As  it  rushed  wildly  over,  it 
carried  enormous  quantities  of  dirt,  gravel,  and 

283 


gyttt  of  tfy  (gocftte* 

other  earthy  wreckage,  and  some  of  the  stones 
were  as  large  as  a  man's  hat.  Now  and  then 
there  was  a  slackening,  but  these  momentary 
subsidences  were  followed  by  explosive  out- 
pourings with  which  mingled  large  pieces  of 
charred  or  half-decayed  wood,  sometimes  closely 
pursued  by  a  small  boulder  or  some  rock-frag- 
ments. Surely,  these  deforested  slopes  were 
heavy  contributors  to  the  millions  of  tons  of 
undesirable  matter  that  annually  went  in  to 
fill  the  channel  and  vex  the  current  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi ! 

These  demonstrations  brought  to  mind  a  re- 
mark of  an  army  engineer  to  the  effect  that  the 
"Western  forest  fires  had  resulted  in  filling  the 
Missouri  River  channel  full  of  dissolved  Rocky 
Mountains."  The  action  of  the  water  on  this 
single  burned  area  suggested  that  ten  thousand 
other  fireswept  heights  must  be  rapidly  dimin- 
ishing. At  all  events,  it  is  evident  that,  unless 
this  erosion  is  stopped,  boats  before  long  will 
hardly  find  room  to  enter  the  Mississippi.  It 
now  became  easier  to  account  for  the  mud-filled 
channel  of  the  great  river,  and  also  for  the  in- 

284 


(Ratnp 

numerable  bars  that  display  their  broad  backs 
above  its  shallow,  sluggish  water.  Every  smooth 
or  fluted  fill  in  this  great  stream  tells  of  a  ragged 
gulch  or  a  roughened,  soilless  place  somewhere 
on  a  slope  at  one  of  its  sources. 

What  a  mingling  of  matter  makes  up  the  mud 
of  the  Mississippi,  —  a  soil  mixture  from  twenty 
States,  the  blended  richness  of  ten  thousand 
slopes!  Coming  up  the  "Father  of  Waters," 
and  noting  its  obstructions  of  sediment  and 
sand,  its  embarrassment  of  misplaced  material, 
its  dumps  and  deposits  of  soil,  —  monumental 
ruins  of  wasted  resources,  —  one  may  say, 
"  Here  lies  the  lineal  descendant  of  Pike's  Peak; 
here  the  greater  part  of  an  Ohio  hill";  or,  "A 
flood  took  this  from  a  terraced  cotton-field,  and 
this  from  a  farm  in  sunny  Tennessee."  A  mud 
flat  itself  might  remark,  "The  thoughtless  lum- 
berman who  caused  my  downfall  is  now  in  Con- 
gress urging  river  improvement";  and  the  shal- 
low waters  at  the  big  bend  could  add,  "Our 
once  deep  channel  was  filled  with  soil  from  a 
fire-scourged  mountain.  The  minister  whose 
vacation  fire  caused  this  ruin  is  now  a  militant 

285 


of  $e  (RocSiee 

missionary  among  the  heathen  of  Cherry  Blos- 
som land." 

Wondering  if  the  ouzel's  boulder  had  been 
rolled  away,  or  if  the  deep  hole  above  it,  where 
the  mill  men  caught  trout,  had  been  filled  with 
wash,  I  decided  to  go  at  once  and  see,  and  then 
return  for  a  final  look  about  the  forks.  Yes,  the 
boulder  was  missing,  apparently  buried,  for  the 
hole  was  earth-filled  and  the  trout  gone.  So  it 
was  evident  that  forests  were  helpful  even  to  the 
fish  in  the  streams.  I  took  off  my  hat  to  the 
trees  and  started  back  to  the  junction.  On  the 
way  I  resolved  to  tell  the  men  in  the  mill  that  a 
tree  is  the  most  useful  thing  that  grows,  and 
that  floods  may  be  checked  by  forests. 

The  storm  was  over  and  the  clouds  were  re- 
treating. On  a  fallen  log  that  lay  across  the 
main  stream  I  lingered  and  watched  the  dark 
and  white  waters  mingle.  The  white  stream  was 
slowly  rising,  while  the  dark  one  was  rapidly 
falling.  In  a  few  days  the  one  from  the  barren 
slopes  would  be  hardly  alive,  while  the  other 
from  among  the  trees  would  be  singing  a  song 
full  of  strength  as  it  swept  on  toward  the  sea. 

286 


The  forest-born  stream  is  the  useful  and  beau- 
tiful one.  It  has  a  steady  flow  of  clear  water, 
and  fishermen  cheerfully  come  to  its  green, 
mossy  banks.  The  buildings  along  its  course  are 
safe  from  floods,  and  are  steadily  served  with 
the  power  of  its  reliable  flow ;  its  channel  is  free 
from  mud  and  full  of  water;  it  allows  the  busy 
boats  of  commerce  freely  to  come  and  go;  in 
countless  ways  it  serves  the  activities  of  man. 
It  never  causes  damage,  and  always  enriches 
and  gladdens  the  valley  through  which  it  flows 
on  to  the  sea. 

A  song  roused  me  from  my  revery.  The  sky 
was  almost  clear,  and  the  long,  ragged  shadows 
of  the  nearest  peaks  streamed  far  toward  the 
east.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred.  Far  away  a 
hermit  thrush  was  singing,  while  a  thousand 
spruces  stood  and  listened.  In  the  midst  of  this 
a  solitaire  on  the  top  of  a  pine  tree  burst  out  in 
marvelous  melody. 


of  A  €ttt 


of  a 


HE  ripened  seeds  of  trees  are  sent  forth  with 
many  strange  devices  and  at  random  for 
the  unoccupied  and  fertile  places  of  the  earth. 
There  are  six  hundred  kinds  of  trees  in  North 
America,  and  each  of  these  equips  its  seeds  in 
a  peculiar  way,  that  they  may  take  advantage 
of  wind,  gravity,  water,  birds,  or  beasts  to  trans- 
port them  on  their  home-seeking  journey. 

The  whole  seed-sowing  story  is  a  fascinating 
one.  Blindly,  often  thick  as  snow,  the  seeds  go 
forth  to  seek  their  fortune,  —  to  find  a  rooting- 
place.  All  are  in  danger,  many  are  limited  as 
to  time,  and  the  majority  are  restricted  to  a  sin- 
gle effort.  A  few,  however,  have  a  complex  and 
novel  equipment  and  with  this  make  a  long,  ro- 
mantic, and  sometimes  an  adventurous  journey, 
colonizing  at  last  some  strange  land  far  from  the 
place  of  their  birth.  Commonly,  however,  this 
journey  is  brief,  and  usually  after  one  short  fall 

291 


of 


or  flight  the  seed  comes  to  rest  where  it  will 
sprout  or  perish.  Generally  it  dies. 

One  autumn  afternoon  in  southeastern  Mis- 
souri, seated  upon  some  driftwood  on  the  shal- 
low margin  of  the  Mississippi,  I  discovered  a 
primitive  craft  that  was  carrying  a  colony  of 
adventurous  tree  seeds  down  the  mighty  river. 
As  I  watched  and  listened,  the  nuts  pattered 
upon  the  fallen  leaves  and  the  Father  of  Waters 
purled  and  whispered  as  he  slipped  his  broad 
yellow-gray  current  almost  silently  to  the  sea. 
Here  and  there  a  few  broad-backed  sandbars 
showed  themselves  above  the  surface,  as  though 
preparing  to  rise  up  and  inquire  what  had  be- 
come of  the  water. 

This  primitive  craft  was  a  log  that  drifted 
low  and  heavy,  end  on  with  the  current.  It 
was  going  somewhere  with  a  small  cargo  of  tree 
seeds.  Upon  a  broken  upraised  limb  of  the  log 
sat  a  kingfisher.  As  it  drifted  with  the  current, 
breezes  upon  the  wooded  hill-tops  decorated  the 
autumn  air  with  deliberately  falling  leaves  and 
floating  winged  seeds.  The  floating  log  pointed 
straight  for  a  sand-bar  upon  which  other  logs 

292 


fait  of 

and  snags  were  stranded.  I  determined,  when  it 
should  come  aground,  to  see  the  character  of  the 
cargo  that  it  carried. 

Now  and  then,  as  I  sat  there,  the  heavy  round 
nuts  like  merry  boys  came  bounding  and  rattling 
down  the  hillside,  which  rose  from  the  water's 
edge.  Occasionally  as  a  nut  dropped  from  the 
tree- top  he  struck  a  limb  spring  board  and  from 
this  made  a  long  leap  outward  for  a  roll  down 
the  hillside.  These  nuts  were  walnut  and  hick- 
ory ;  and  like  most  heavy  nuts  they  traveled  by 
rolling,  floating,  and  squirrel  carriage. 

One  nut  dropped  upon  a  low  limb,  glanced 
far  outward,  and  landed  upon  a  log,  from  which 
it  bounced  outward  and  went  bouncing  down 
the  hillside  aplunk  into  the  river.  Slowly  it 
rolled  this  way  and  that  in  the  almost  currentless 
water.  At  last  it  made  up  its  mind,  and,  with 
the  almost  invisible  swells,  commenced  to  float 
slowly  toward  the  floating  log  out  in  the  river. 
By  and  by  the  current  caught  it,  carried  it 
toward  and  round  the  sand-bar,  to  float  away 
with  the  onsweep  toward  the  sea.  This  nut  may 
have  been  carried  a  few  miles  or  a  few  hundred 

293 


of 


before  it  went  ashore  on  the  bank  of  the  river  or 
landed  upon  some  romantic  island  to  sprout  and 
grow.  Seeds  often  are  carried  by  rivers  and  then 
successfully  planted,  after  many  stops  and  ad- 
vances, far  from  the  parent  tree. 

The  log  hesitated  as  it  approached  the  sand- 
bar, as  if  cautiously  smelling  with  its  big,  rooty 
nose;  but  at  last  it  swung  round  broadside,  and 
sleepily  allowed  the  current  to  put  it  to  bed 
upon  the  sand.  As  a  tree,  this  log  had  lived  on 
the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  or  one  of  its  tribu- 
taries, in  Minnesota.  While  standing  it  had  for 
a  time  served  as  a  woodpecker  home.  In  one  of 
the  larger  excavations  made  by  these  birds,  I 
found  some  white  pine  cones  and  other  seeds 
from  the  north  that  had  been  stored  by  bird  or 
squirrel.  A  long  voyage  these  seeds  had  taken; 
they  may  have  continued  the  journey,  landing 
at  last  to  grow  in  sunny  Tennessee  ;  or  they  may 
have  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  river  or  even 
have  perished  in  the  salt  waters  of  the  Gulf. 

In  climbing  up  the  steep  hillside  above  the 
river,  I  found  many  nests  of  hickory  and  walnuts 
against  the  upper  side  of  fallen  logs.  Upon  the 

294 


of  a 


level  hill-top  the  ground  beneath  the  tree  was 
thickly  covered  with  fallen  nuts;  only  a  few  of 
these  had  got  a  tree's  length  away  from  the  par- 
ent. Occasionally,  however,  a  wind-gust  used  a 
long,  slender  limb  as  a  sling,  and  flung  the  at- 
tached nuts  afar. 

The  squirrels  were  active,  laying  up  a  hoard 
of  nuts  for  winter.  Many  a  walnut,  hickory,  or 
butternut  tree  at  some  distant  place  may  have 
grown  from  an  uneaten  or  forgotten  nut  which 
the  squirrels  carried  away. 

The  winged  seeds  are  the  ones  that  are  most 
widely  scattered.  These  are  grown  by  many 
kinds  of  trees.  From  May  until  midwinter  trees 
of  this  kind  are  giving  their  little  atoms  of  life 
to  the  great  seed-sower,  the  wind.  Most  winged 
seeds  have  one  wing  for  each  seed  and  commonly 
each  makes  but  one  flight.  Generally  the  lighter 
the  seed  and  the  higher  the  wind,  the  farther  the 
seed  will  fly  or  be  blown. 

In  May  the  silver  maple  starts  the  flight  of 
winged  seeds.  This  tree  has  a  seed  about  the  size 
of  a  peanut,  provided  with  a  one-sided  wing  as 
large  as  one's  thumb.  It  sails  away  from  the 

295 


of 


tree,  settling  rapidly  toward  the  earth  with 
heavy  end  downward,  whirling  round  and  round 
as  it  falls.  Red  maple  seeds  ripen  in  June,  but 
not  until  autumn  does  the  hard  maple  send  its 
winged  ones  forth  from  amid  the  painted  leaves. 

The  seed  of  an  ash  tree  is  like  a  dart.  In  the 
different  ashes  these  are  of  different  lengths,  but 
all  have  two-edged  wings  which  in  calm  weather 
dart  the  seed  to  the  snowy  earth  ;  but  in  a  lively 
wind  they  are  tumbled  and  whirled  about  while 
being  unceremoniously  carried  afar  ;  this  they  do 
not  mind,  for  at  the  first  lull  they  right  them- 
selves and  drop  in  good  form  to  the  earth. 

Cottonwoods  and  willows  send  forth  their 
seeds  inclosed  in  a  dainty  puff  or  ball  of  silky 
cotton  that  is  so  light  that  the  wind  often  car- 
ries it  long  distances.  With  the  willow  this  de- 
vice is  so  airy  and  dainty  that  it  is  easily  en- 
tangled on  twigs  or  grass  and  may  never  reach 
the  earth.  The  willow  seed,  too,  is  so  feeble  that 
it  will  often  perish  inside  twenty-four  hours  if 
it  does  not  find  a  most  favorable  germinating- 
place.  This  makes  but  little  difference  to  the 
willows,  for  they  do  not  depend  upon  seeds  for 

296 


extension  but  upon  the  breaking  off  of  roots  or 
twigs  by  various  agencies;  these  pieces  of  roots 
or  twigs  often  are  carried  miles  by  streams,  and 
take  root  perhaps  at  the  first  place  where  they 
go  around. 

The  seeds  of  the  sycamore  are  in  balls  attached 
to  the  limbs  by  a  slender  twiglet.  The  winter 
winds  beat  and  thump  these  balls  against  the 
limbs,  thus  causing  the  seeds  to  loosen  and  to 
drop  a  few  at  a  time  to  the  earth.  Each  seed  is  a 
light  little  pencil  which  at  one  end  is  equipped 
with  a  whorl  of  hairs,  —  a  parachute  which 
delays  its  fall  and  thus  enables  the  wind  to  carry 
it  away  from  the  parent  tree. 

The  conifers  —  the  pines,  firs,  and  spruces  — 
have  ingeniously  devised  and  developed  their 
winged  seeds  for  wind  distribution.  Most  of 
these  seeds  are  light,  and  each  is  attached  to  a 
dainty  feather  or  wing  which  is  used  on  its  com- 
mencement day.  These  wings  are  as  handsome 
as  insects'  wings,  dainty  enough  for  fairies ;  they 
are  purple,  plain  brown,  and  spotted,  and  so 
balanced  that  they  revolve  or  whirl,  glinting  in 
the  autumn  sun  as  they  go  on  their  adventurous 

297 


of  t$t 


wind-blown  flight  to  the  earth.  A  high  wind 
may  carry  them  miles. 

With  the  pines  and  spruces  the  cones  open  one 
or  a  few  scales  at  a  time,  so  that  the  seeds  from 
each  cone  are  distributed  through  many  days. 
The  firs,  however,  carry  cones  that  when  ripe 
often  collapse  in  the  wind.  The  entire  filling  of 
seeds  are  thus  dropped  at  once  and  fill  the  air 
with  flocks  of  merry,  diving,  glinting  wings. 
A  heavy  seed-crop  in  a  coniferous  forest  gives  a 
touch  of  poetry  to  the  viewless  air. 

The  lodge-pole  pine  is  one  of  the  most  patient 
and  philosophical  seed-sowers  in  the  forest.  It 
is  a  prolific  seed-producer  and  has  a  remarkable 
hoarding  characteristic,  —  that  of  keeping  its 
cones  closed  and  holding  on  to  them  for  years. 
Commonly  a  forest  fire  kills  trees  without  con- 
suming them.  With  the  lodge-pole  the  fire  fre- 
quently burns  off  the  needles,  leaving  the  tree 
standing,  but  it  melts  the  sealing-wax  on  the 
cones.  Thus  the  fire  releases  these  seeds  and 
they  fall  upon  a  freshly  fire-cleaned  soil,  —  a 
condition  for  them  most  favorable. 

Although  the  cherry  is  without  wings  or  a 
298 


of  a 


flying-machine  of  its  own,  it  is  rich  enough  to 
employ  the  rarest  transportation  in  the  world. 
With  attractively  colored  and  luscious  pulp  it 
hires  many  beautiful  birds  to  carry  it  to  new 
scenes.  On  the  wings  of  the  mockingbird  and 
the  hermit  thrush,  —  what  a  happy  and  roman- 
tic way  in  which  to  seek  the  promised  land  ! 

Many  kinds  of  pulp-covered  seeds  that  are 
attractive  and  delicious  when  ripe  are  unpleas- 
ant to  the  taste  while  green;  this  protective 
measure  guards  them  against  being  sown  before 
they  are  ready  or  ripe.  The  instant  persimmons 
are  ripe,  the  trees  are  full  of  opossums  which 
disseminate  the  ready-to-grow  seeds;  but  Mr. 
'Possum  avoids  the  green  and  puckery  per- 
simmons! 

The  big  tree  is  one  of  the  most  fruitful  of  seed- 
bearers.  In  a  single  year  one  of  these  may  pro- 
duce some  millions  of  fertile  seeds.  These  ma- 
ture in  comparatively  small  cones  and,  each 
seed  being  light  as  air,  they  are  sometimes  car- 
ried by  high  winds  across  ridges  and  ravines 
before  being  dropped  to  the  earth. 

The  honey  locust  uses  a  peculiar  device  to 
299 


of 


secure  wind  assistance  in  pushing  afar  its  long, 
purplish  pods  with  their  heavy  beanlike  seeds. 
This  pod  is  not  only  flattened  but  crooked  and 
slightly  twisted.  Dropping  from  the  tree  in 
midwinter,  it  often  lands  upon  crusted  snow. 
Here  on  windy  days  it  becomes  a  kind  of  crude 
ice-boat  and  goes  skimming  along  before  the 
wind;  with  its  flattened,  twisted  surface  it  ever 
presents  a  boosting-surface  to  the  breeze. 

The  ironwood  tree  launches  its  seeds  each 
seated  in  the  prow  of  a  tiny  boat,  which  floats 
or  careers  away  upon  the  invisible  ocean  of  air, 
sinking,  after  a  rudderless  voyage,  to  the  earth. 
The  attachment  to  some  seeds  is  bladder-  or 
balloon-like;  tied  helplessly  to  this,  the  seed  is 
cast  forth  briefly  to  wander  with  the  wandering 
winds. 

The  linden,  or  basswood,  tree  uses  a  mono- 
plane for  buoyancy.  The  basswood  attaches  or 
suspends  a  number  of  seeds  by  slender  threads 
to  the  centre  of  a  leaf;  in  autumn  when  this 
falls  it  resists  gravity  for  a  time  and  ofttimes 
with  its  clinging  cargo  alights  far  from  the  tree 
which  sent  it  forth. 

300 


of 


Burr-  or  hook-covered  seeds  may  become 
attached  to  the  backs  of  animals  and  thus  be 
transported  afar.  One  day  in  Colorado  I  dis- 
turbed a  black  bear  in  some  willows  more  than  a 
mile  from  the  woods;  as  he  ran  over  a  grassy 
ridge  three  or  four  pine  cones  that  had  been 
hooked  and  entangled  in  his  hair  went  spinning 
off.  Seeds  sometimes  are  internationally  dis- 
tributed by  becoming  attached  by  some  sticky 
substance  —  pitch  or  dried  mud  —  to  the  legs 
or  feathers  of  birds.  Cottonwood  seed  often  has 
a  long  ride,  though  generally  a  fruitless  one,  by 
alighting  in  the  hair  of  some  animal.  Sometimes 
a  cone  or  nut  becomes  wedged  between  the 
hoofs  of  an  animal  and  is  carried  about  for  days; 
taken  miles  before  it  is  dropped,  it  grows  a  lone 
tree  far  from  the  nearest  grove. 

Though  the  witch-hazel  is  no  longer  invested 
with  eerie  charms,  it  still  has  its  own  peculiar 
way  of  doing  things.  It  chooses  to  bloom  alone 
in  the  autumn,  just  at  the  time  its  seeds  are  ripe 
and  scattering.  Assisted  by  the  frost  and  the 
sun,  it  scatters  its  shotlike  seeds  with  a  series  of 
snappy  little  explosions  which  fling  them  twelve 

301 


of  10*  (Roches 

to  twenty  feet  from  the  capsule  in  which  they 
ripen. 

The  mangrove  trees  of  Florida  germinate  their 
seeds  upon  the  tree  and  then  drop  little  plants 
off  into  the  water;  here  winds  and  currents  may 
move  them  hither  and  yon  as  they  blindly  ex- 
plore for  a  rooting-place. 

The  cocoanut  tree  covers  its  nuts  with  a  kind 
of  "excelsior"  which  prevents  their  breaking 
upon  the  rocks.  This  also  facilitates  the  floating 
and  transportation  of  the  nut  in  the  sea.  When 
the  breakers  have  flung  it  upon  rocks  or 
broken  reefs,  here  its  fibrous  covering  helps  it 
cling  until  the  young  roots  grow  and  anchor  it 
securely. 

Thus  endlessly  during  all  the  seasons  of  the 
year  the  trees  are  sowing  their  ripened  seed  and 
sending  them  forth,  variously  equipped,  blindly 
to  seek  a  place  in  which  they  may  live,  perpetu- 
ate the  species,  and  extend  the  forest. 

It  is  well  that  nature  sows  seeds  like  a  spend- 
thrift. So  many  are  the  chances  against  the 
seed,  so  numerous  are  the  destroying  agencies, 
so  few  are  the  places  in  reach  that  are  unoc- 

302 


of 


cupied,  that  perhaps  not  more  than  one  seed  in 
a  million  ever  germinates,  and  hardly  one  tree 
in  a  thousand  that  starts  to  grow  ever  attains 
maturity.  Through  sheer  force  of  numbers  and 
continuous  seed-scattering,  the  necessarily  ran- 
dom methods  of  nature  produce  results;  and 
where  opportunity  opens,  trees  promptly  ex- 
tend their  holdings  or  reclaim  a  territory  from 
which  they  have  been  driven. 

Many  times  I  have  wandered  through  the 
coniferous  forests  in  the  mountains  when  the 
seeds  were  ripe  and  fluttering  thick  as  snow- 
flakes  to  the  earth.  Visiting  ridges,  slopes,  and 
canons,  I  have  watched  the  pines,  firs,  and 
spruces  closing  a  year's  busy,  invisible  activity 
by  merrily  strewing  the  air  and  the  earth  with 
their  fruits,  —  seeding  for  the  centuries  to  come. 
One  breathless  autumn  day  I  looked  up  into  the 
blue  sky  from  the  bottom  of  a  canon.  The  golden 
air  was  as  thickly  filled  with  winged  seeds  as  a 
perfect  night  with  stars.  A  light  local  air-cur- 
rent made  a  milky  way  across  this  sky.  Myriads 
of  becalmed  and  suspended  seeds  were  fixed 
stars.  Some  of  the  seeds,  each  with  a  filmy  wing, 

303 


of  $* 


hurried  through  elliptical  orbits  like  comets  as 
they  settled  to  the  earth;  while  innumerable 
others,  as  they  came  rotating  down,  were  re- 
volving through  planetary  orbits  in  this  seed- 
sown  field  of  space.  Now  and  then  a  number  of 
cones  on  a  fir  tree  collapsed  and  precipitated 
into  space  a  meteoric  shower  of  slow-descending 
seeds  and  a  hurried  zigzag  fall  of  heavier  scales. 
Occasionally  on  a  ridge-top  a  few  of  the  lighter 
seeds  would  come  floating  upward  through  an 
air-chimney  as  though  carried  in  an  invisible 
smoke-column. 

One  windy  day  I  crossed  the  mountains  when 
a  gale  was  driving  millions  of  low-flying  seeds 
before  it.  Away  they  swept  down  the  slope,  to 
whirl  widely  and  flutter  over  the  gulch  where  the 
wind-current  dashed  against  the  uprising  moun- 
tain beyond.  Most  of  the  seeds  were  flung  to  the 
earth  along  the  way  or  dropped  in  the  bottom  of 
the  gulch;  a  few,  however,  were  carried  by  the 
swift  uprushing  current  up  and  across  the  moun- 
tain and  at  last  scattered  on  the  opposite  side. 

When  the  last  seed  of  the  year  has  fallen,  how 
thickly  the  woodland  regions  are  sown  broad- 

304 


of  a 


cast  with  seeds!  Only  a  few  of  these  will  have 
landed  in  a  hospitable  place.  The  overwhelm- 
ingly majority  fell  in  the  water  to  drown  or  on 
rock  ledges  or  other  places  to  starve  or  wither. 
The  few  fortunate  enough  to  find  unoccupied 
and  fertile  places  will  still  have  to  reckon  with 
devouring  insects  and  animals.  How  different 
may  be  the  environment  of  two  seedlings  sprung 
from  seeds  grown  on  the  selfsame  tree  !  On  their 
commencement  day  two  little  atoms  of  life  may 
be  separated  by  the  wind  :  one  finds  shelter  and 
fertile  earth  ;  the  other  roots  in  a  barely  livable 
place  on  the  cold,  stormbeaten  heights  of  tim- 
ber-line. Both  use  their  inherent  energy  and 
effort  to  the  utmost.  One  becomes  a  forest  mon- 
arch ;  the  other  a  dwarf,  uncouth  and  ugly. 


n  a  Qtlounfain 


3n  a  QUotmfain 


T  the  close  of  one  of  our  winter  trips,  my 
collie  Scotch  and  I  started  across  the  con- 
tinental divide  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  face 
of  weather  conditions  that  indicated  a  snow- 
storm or  a  blizzard  before  we  could  gain  the 
other  side.  We  had  eaten  the  last  of  our  food 
twenty-four  hours  before  and  could  no  longer 
wait  for  fair  weather.  So  off  we  started  to  scale 
the  snowy  steeps  of  the  cold,  gray  heights  a  thou- 
sand feet  above.  The  mountains  already  were 
deeply  snow-covered  and  it  would  have  been 
a  hard  trip  even  without  the  discomforts  and 
dangers  of  a  storm. 

I  was  on  snowshoes  and  for  a  week  we  had 
been  camping  and  tramping  through  the  snowy 
forests  and  glacier  meadows  at  the  source  of 
Grand  River,  two  miles  above  the  sea.  The  pri- 
meval Rocky  Mountain  forests  are  just  as  near 
to  Nature's  heart  in  winter  as  in  summer.  I  had 
found  so  much  to  study  and  enjoy  that  the  long 

309 


of 


distance  from  a  food-supply,  even  when  the 
last  mouthful  was  eaten,  had  not  aroused  me 
to  the  seriousness  of  the  situation.  Scotch  had 
not  complained,  and  appeared  to  have  the 
keenest  collie  interest  in  the  tracks  and  trails, 
the  scenes  and  silences  away  from  the  haunts  of 
man.  The  snow  lay  seven  feet  deep,  but  by 
keeping  in  my  snowshoe  tracks  Scotch  easily 
followed  me  about.  Our  last  camp  was  in  the 
depths  of  an  alpine  forest  at  an  altitude  of  ten 
thousand  feet.  Here,  though  zero  weather  pre- 
vailed, we  were  easily  comfortable  beside  a  fire 
under  the  protection  of  an  overhanging  cliff. 

After  a  walk  through  woods  the  sun  came 
blazing  in  our  faces  past  the  snow-piled  crags 
on  Long's  Peak,  and  threw  slender  blue  shadows 
of  the  spiry  spruces  far  out  in  a  white  glacier 
meadow  to  meet  us.  Reentering  the  tall  but 
open  woods,  we  saw,  down  the  long  aisles  and 
limb-arched  avenues,  a  forest  of  tree  columns, 
entangled  in  sunlight  and  shadow,  standing  on 
a  snowy  marble  floor. 

We  were  on  the  Pacific  slope,  and  our  plan  was 
to  cross  the  summit  by  the  shortest  way  between 

310 


ON   GRAND    RIVER,   MIDDLE    PARK,   IN    WINTER 


a  QUounfoin 

timber-line  and  timber-line  on  the  Atlantic  side. 
This  meant  ascending  a  thousand  feet,  descend- 
ing an  equal  distance,  traveling  five  miles  amid 
bleak,  rugged  environment.  Along  the  treeless, 
gradual  ascent  we  started,  realizing  that  the  last 
steep  icy  climb  would  be  dangerous  and  defiant. 
Most  of  the  snow  had  slid  from  the  steeper 
places,  and  much  of  the  remainder  had  blown 
away.  Over  the  unsheltered  whole  the  wind 
was  howling.  For  a  time  the  sun  shone  dimly 
through  the  wind-driven  snow-dust  that  rolled 
from  the  top  of  the  range,  but  it  disappeared 
early  behind  wild,  windswept  clouds. 

After  gaining  a  thousand  feet  of  altitude 
through  the  friendly  forest,  we  climbed  out  and 
up  above  the  trees  on  a  steep  slope  at  timber- 
line.  This  place,  the  farthest  up  for  trees,  .was 
a  picturesque,  desolate  place.  The  dwarfed, 
gnarled,  storm-shaped  trees  amid  enormous 
snow-drifts  told  of  endless,  and  at  times  deadly, 
struggles  of  the  trees  with  the  elements.  Most 
of  the  trees  were  buried,  but  here  and  there  a 
leaning  or  a  storm-distorted  one  bent  bravely 
above  the  snows. 


of 


At  last  we  were  safely  on  a  ridge  and  started 
merrily  off,  hoping  to  cover  speedily  the  three 
miles  of  comparatively  level  plateau. 

How  the  wind  did  blow!  Up  more  than  eleven 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  with  not  a  tree  to 
steady  or  break,  it  had  a  royal  sweep.  The  wind 
appeared  to  be  putting  forth  its  wildest  efforts 
to  blow  us  off  the  ridge.  There  being  a  broad 
way,  I  kept  well  from  the  edges.  The  wind 
came  with  a  dash  and  heavy  rush,  first  from  one 
quarter,  then  from  another.  I  was  watchful  and 
faced  each  rush  firmly  braced.  Generally,  this 
preparedness  saved  me;  but  several  times  the 
wind  apparently  expanded  or  exploded  beneath 
me,  and,  with  an  upward  toss,  I  was  flung  among 
the  icy  rocks  and  crusted  snows.  Finally  I  took 
to  dropping  and  lying  flat  whenever  a  violent 
gust  came  ripping  among  the  crags. 

There  was  an  arctic  barrenness  to  this  alpine 
ridge,  —  not  a  house  within  miles,  no  trail,  and 
here  no  tree  could  live  to  soften  the  sternness  of 
the  landscape  or  to  cheer  the  traveler.  The  way 
was  amid  snowy  piles,  icy  spaces,  and  wind- 
swept crags. 

312 


3n  a  Qttounftun 


The  wind  slackened  and  snow  began  to  fall 
just  as  we  were  leaving  the  smooth  plateau  for 
the  broken  part  of  the  divide.  The  next  mile 
of  way  was  badly  cut  to  pieces  with  deep  gorges 
from  both  sides  of  the  ridge.  The  inner  ends 
of  several  of  these  broke  through  the  centre  of 
the  ridge  and  extended  beyond  the  ends  of  the 
gorges  from  the  opposite  side.  This  made  the 
course  a  series  of  sharp,  short  zigzags. 

We  went  forward  in  the  flying  snow.  I  could 
scarcely  see,  but  felt  that  I  could  keep  the  way 
on  the  broken  ridge  between  the  numerous  rents 
and  canons.  On  snowy,  icy  ledges  the  wind  took 
reckless  liberties.  I  wanted  to  stop  but  dared 
not,  for  the  cold  was  intense  enough  to  freeze 
one  in  a  few  minutes. 

Fearing  that  a  snow-whirl  might  separate  us, 
I  fastened  one  end  of  my  light,  strong  rope  to 
Scotch's  collar  and  the  other  end  to  my  belt. 
This  proved  to  be  fortunate  for  both,  for  while 
we  were  crossing  an  icy,  though  moderate,  slope, 
a  gust  of  wind  swept  me  off  my  feet  and  started 
us  sliding.  It  was  not  steep,  but  was  so  slippery 
I  could  not  stop,  nor  see  where  the  slope  ended, 

313 


gyttt  of  tfy  (Rocfiies 

and  I  grabbed  in  vain  at  the  few  icy  projections. 
Scotch  also  lost  his  footing  and  was  sliding  and 
rolling  about,  and  the  wind  was  hurrying  us 
along,  when  I  threw  myself  flat  and  dug  at  the 
ice  with  fingers  and  toes.  In  the  midst  of  my 
unsuccessful  efforts  we  were  brought  to  a  sudden 
stop  by  the  rope  between  us  catching  over  a 
small  rock-point  that  was  thrust  up  through  the 
ice.  Around  this  in  every  direction  was  smooth, 
sloping  ice;  this,  with  the  high  wind,  made  me 
wonder  for  a  moment  how  we  were  to  get  safely 
off  the  slope.  The  belt  axe  proved  the  means, 
for  with  it  I  reached  out  as  far  as  I  could  and 
chopped  a  hole  in  the  ice,  while  with  the  other 
hand  I  clung  to  the  rock-point.  Then,  returning 
the  axe  to  my  belt,  I  caught  hold  in  the  chopped 
place  and  pulled  myself  forward,  repeating  this 
until  on  safe  footing. 

In  oncoming  darkness  and  whirling  snow  I 
had  safely  rounded  the  ends  of  two  gorges  and 
was  hurrying  forward  over  a  comparatively 
level  stretch,  with  the  wind  at  my  back  boosting 
along.  Scotch  was  running  by  my  side  and  evi- 
dently was  trusting  me  to  guard  against  all 


3n  a  (Tllounf  ain 


dangers.  This  I  tried  to  do.  Suddenly,  however, 
there  came  a  fierce  dash  of  wind  and  whirl  of 
snow  that  hid  everything.  Instantly  I  flung 
myself  flat,  trying  to  stop  quickly.  Just  as  I  did 
this  I  caught  the  strange,  weird  sound  made  by 
high  wind  as  it  sweeps  across  a  canon,  and  at 
once  realized  that  we  were  close  to  a  storm- 
hidden  gorge.  I  stopped  against  a  rock,  while 
Scotch  slid  in  and  was  hauled  back  with  the 
rope. 

The  gorge  had  been  encountered  between 
two  out-thrusting  side  gorges,  and  between 
these  in  the  darkness  I  had  a  cold  time  feeling 
my  way  out.  At  last  I  came  to  a  cairn  of  stones 
which  I  recognized.  The  way  had  been  missed 
by  only  a  few  yards,  but  this  miss  had  been 
nearly  fatal. 

Not  daring  to  hurry  in  the  darkness  in  order 
to  get  warm,  I  was  becoming  colder  every  mo- 
ment. I  still  had  a  stiff  climb  between  me  and 
the  summit,  with  timber-line  three  rough  miles 
beyond.  To  attempt  to  make  it  would  probably 
result  in  freezing  or  tumbling  into  a  gorge.  At 
last  I  realized  that  I  must  stop  and  spend  the 

315 


of 


night  in  a  snow-drift.  Quickly  kicking  and 
trampling  a  trench  in  a  loose  drift,  I  placed 
my  elk-skin  sleeping-bag  therein,  thrust  Scotch 
into  the  bag,  and  then  squeezed  into  it  myself. 

I  was  almost  congealed  with  cold.  My  first 
thought  after  warming  up  was  to  wonder  why  I 
had  not  earlier  remembered  the  bag.  Two  in  a 
bag  would  guarantee  warmth,  and  with  warmth 
a  snow-drift  on  the  crest  of  the  continent  would 
not  be  a  bad  place  in  which  to  lodge  for  the 
night. 

The  sounds  of  wind  and  snow  beating  upon 
the  bag  grew  fainter  and  fainter  as  we  were 
drifted  and  piled  over  with  the  latter.  At  the 
same  time  our  temperature  rose,  and  before 
long  it  was  necessary  to  open  the  flap  of  the  bag 
slightly  for  ventilation. 

At  last  the  sounds  of  the  storm  could  barely 
be  heard.  Was  the  storm  quieting  down,  or  was 
its  roar  muffled  and  lost  in  the  deepening  cover 
of  snow,  was  the  unimportant  question  occupy- 
ing my  thoughts  when  I  fell  asleep. 

Scotch  awakened  me  in  trying  to  get  out  of 
the  bag.  It  was  morning.  Out  we  crawled,  and, 

316 


3n  a  QUounfain 

standing  with  only  my  head  above  the  drift,  I 
found  the  air  still  and  saw  a  snowy  mountain 
world  all  serene  in  the  morning  sun.  I  hastily 
adjusted  sleeping-bag  and  snowshoes,  and  we 
set  off  for  the  final  climb  to  the  summit. 

The  final  one  hundred  feet  or  so  rose  steep, 
jagged,  and  ice-covered  before  me.  There  was 
nothing  to  lay  hold  of;  every  point  of  vantage 
was  plated  and  coated  with  non-prehensible  ice. 
There  appeared  only  one  way  to  surmount  this 
icy  barrier  and  that  was  to  chop  toe  and  hand 
holes  from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  this  icy  wall, 
which  in  places  was  close  to  vertical.  Such  a 
climb  would  not  be  especially  difficult  or  danger- 
ous for  me,  but  could  Scotch  do  it?  He  could 
hardly  know  how  to  place  his  feet  in  the  holes 
or  on  the  steps  properly;  nor  could  he  realize  that 
a  slip  or  a  misstep  would  mean  a  slide  and  a  roll 

to  death. 

t 

Leaving  sleeping-bag  and  snowshoes  with 
Scotch,  I  grasped  my  axe  and  chopped  my  way 
to  the  top  and  then  went  down  and  carried  bag 
and  snowshoes  up.  Returning  for  Scotch,  I 
started  him  climbing  just  ahead  of  me,  so  that  I 

317 


of 


could  boost  and  encourage  him.  We  had  gained 
only  a  few  feet  when  it  became  plain  that  sooner 
or  later  he  would  slip  and  bring  disaster  to  both. 
We  stopped  and  descended  to  the  bottom  for  a 
new  start. 

Though  the  wind  was  again  blowing  a  gale,  I 
determined  to  carry  him.  His  weight  was  forty 
pounds,  and  he  would  make  a  top-heavy  load 
and  give  the  wind  a  good  chance  to  upset  my 
balance  and  tip  me  off  the  wall.  But,  as  there 
appeared  no  other  way,  I  threw  him  over  my 
shoulder  and  started  up. 

Many  times  Scotch  and  I  had  been  in  ticklish 
places  together,  and  more  than  once  I  had 
pulled  him  up  rocky  cliffs  on  which  he  could  not 
find  footing.  Several  times  I  had  carried  him 
over  gulches  on  fallen  logs  that  were  too  slippery 
for  him.  He  was  so  trusting  and  so  trained  that 
he  relaxed  and  never  moved  while  in  my  arms  or 
on  my  shoulder. 

Arriving  at  the  place  least  steep,  I  stopped  to 
transfer  Scotch  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other. 
The  wind  was  at  its  worst;  its  direction  fre- 
quently changed  and  it  alternately  calmed  and 

318 


SNOW   AND   SHADOW 


3n  a  Qtlounfoin 


then  came  on  like  an  explosion.  For  several 
seconds  it  had  been  roaring  down  the  slope; 
bracing  myself  to  withstand  its  force  from  this 
direction,  I  was  about  moving  Scotch,  when  it 
suddenly  shifted  to  one  side  and  came  with  the 
force  of  a  breaker.  It  threw  me  off  my  balance 
and  tumbled  me  heavily  against  the  icy  slope. 

Though  my  head  struck  solidly,  Scotch  came 
down  beneath  me  and  took  most  of  the  shock. 
Instantly  we  glanced  off  and  began  to  slide 
swiftly.  Fortunately  I  managed  to  get  two 
fingers  into  one  of  the  chopped  holes  and  held 
fast.  I  clung  to  Scotch  with  one  arm;  we  came 
to  a  stop,  both  saved.  Scotch  gave  a  yelp  of 
pain  when  he  fell  beneath  me,  but  he  did  not 
move.  Had  he  made  a  jump  or  attempted  to 
help  himself,  it  is  likely  that  both  of  us  would 
have  gone  to  the  bottom  of  the  slope. 

Gripping  Scotch  with  one  hand  and  clinging 
to  the  icy  hold  with  the  other,  I  shuffled  about 
until  I  got  my  feet  into  two  holes  in  the  icy  wall. 
Standing  in  these  and  leaning  against  the  ice, 
with  the  wind  butting  and  dashing,  I  attempted 
the  ticklish  task  of  lifting  Scotch  again  to  my 

319 


of 


shoulder  —  and  succeeded.  A  minute  later  we 
paused  to  breathe  on  the  summit's  icy  ridge, 
between  two  oceans  and  amid  seas  of  snowy 
peaks. 


(5 


n 


HE  Fremont  squirrel  is  the  most  audacious 
and  wide-awake  of  wild  folk  among  whom  I 
have  lived.  He  appears  to  be  ever  up  and  doing, 
is  intensely  in  earnest  at  all  times  and  strongly 
inclined  to  take  a  serious  view  of  things.  Both 
the  looks  and  manners  of  Mr.  Fremont,  Sciurus 
fremonti,  proclaim  for  him  a  close  relationship 
with  the  Douglas  squirrel  of  California  and  the 
Pacific  coast,  the  squirrel  immortalized  by  John 
Muir. 

His  most  popular  name  is  "Pine  Squirrel," 
and  he  is  found  through  the  pine  and  spruce 
forests  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  its  spur 
ranges,  between  the  foothills  and  timber-line;  a 
vertical,  or  altitudinal,  range  of  more  than  a  mile. 
He  assumes  and  asserts  ownership  of  the  region 
occupied.  If  you  invade  his  forests  he  will  see 
you  first  and  watch  you  closely.  Often  he  does 
this  with  simple  curiosity,  but  more  often  he  is 
irritated  by  your  presence  and  issues  a  chatter- 

323 


of 

ing  protest  while  you  are  still  at  long  range.  If 
you  continue  to  approach  after  this  proclama- 
tion, he  may  come  down  on  a  low  limb  near  by 
and  give  you  as  torrential  and  as  abusive  a 
"cussing"  as  trespasser  ever  received  from  irate 
owner. 

Yet  he  is  most  ridiculously  small  to  do  all 
that  he  threatens  to  do.  Of  course  he  brags  and 
bluffs,  but  these  become  admirable  qualities  in 
this  little  fellow  who  will  ably,  desperately  de- 
fend his  domain  against  heavy  odds  of  size  or 
numbers.  Among  the  squirrels  of  the  world  he  is 
one  of  the  smallest.  He  is  clad  in  gray  and  his 
coat  perceptibly  darkens  in  winter.  His  plumy 
tail,  with  a  fringe  of  white  hairs,  is  as  airy  as 
thistledown.  He  always  appears  clean  and 
well-groomed. 

Though  in  many  ways  a  grizzly  in  miniature 
and  apparently  as  untamable  as  a  tiger,  the  Fre- 
mont quickly  responds  to  kind  advances.  Near 
my  cabin  a  number  became  so  tame  that  they 
took  peanuts  from  my  hand,  sometimes  even 
following  me  to  the  cabin  door  for  this  purpose. 

These  squirrels  occasionally  eat  mushrooms, 
324 


n 

berries,  and  the  inner  bark  of  pine  twigs,  but 
they  depend  almost  entirely  upon  conifer  nuts 
or  seeds,  the  greater  part  of  these  coming  from 
the  cones  of  pines  and  spruces.  They  start 
harvesting  the  cones  in  early  autumn,  so  as  to 
harvest  all  needed  food  for  winter  before  the  dry, 
ripened  cones  open  and  empty  their  tiny  seeds. 
Deftly  they  dart  through  the  tree-tops  almost  as 
swiftly  as  a  hummingbird  and  as  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  the  dangers  of  falling.  With  polished 
blades  of  ivory  they  clip  off  the  clinging,  fruited 
cones.  Happy,  hopeful,  harvest-home  sounds 
the  cones  make  as  they  drop  and  bounce  on  the 
dry  floor  of  the  autumn  woods.  Often  a  pair 
work  together,  one  reaping  the  cones  with  his 
ivory  cutters  and  the  other  carrying  them  home, 
each  being  a  sheaf  of  grain  of  Nature's  bundling. 
When  harvesting  alone,  Mr.  Fremont  is  often 
annoyed  by  the  chipmunks.  These  little  rascals 
will  persist  in  stealing  the  fallen  cones,  despite 
glaring  eyes,  irate  looks,  and  deadly  threats  from 
the  angry  harvester  above.  When  finally  he 
comes  tearing  down  to  carry  his  terrible  ultima- 
tums into  effect,  the  frightened  chipmunks  make 

325 


of 


haste  to  be  off,  but  usually  some  one  is  overtaken 
and  knocked  sprawling  with  an  accompanying 
rapid  fire  of  denunciation. 

One  day  I  watched  a  single  harvester  who  was 
busily,  happily  working.  He  cut  off  a  number  of 
cones  before  descending  to  gather  them.  These 
scattered  widely  like  children  playing  hide-and- 
seek.  One  hid  behind  a  log;  another  bounced 
into  some  brush  and  stuck  two  feet  above  the 
ground,  while  two  others  scampered  far  from  the 
tree.  The  squirrel  went  to  each  in  turn  without 
the  least  hesitation  or  search  and  as  though  he 
had  been  to  each  spot  a  dozen  times  before. 

A  squirrel  often  displays  oddities  both  in  the 
place  selected  for  storing  the  cones  and  the  man- 
ner of  their  arrangement.  Usually  the  cones  are 
wisely  hoarded  both  for  curing  and  for  preserva- 
tion, by  being  stored  a  few  in  a  place.  This  may 
be  beneath  a  living  tree  or  in  an  open  space, 
placed  one  layer  deep  in  the  loose  forest  litter 
scarcely  below  the  general  level  of  the  surface. 
They  are  also  stowed  both  in  and  upon  old  logs 
and  stumps.  Sometimes  they  are  placed  in  little 
nests  with  a  half-dozen  or  so  cones  each  ;  often 

326 


n 

there  are  a  dozen  of  these  in  a  square  yard. 
This  scattering  of  the  sap-filled  cones,  together 
with  the  bringing  of  each  into  contact  with  dry 
foreign  substances,  secures  ventilation  and  as- 
sists the  sappy  cones  to  dry  and  cure ;  if  closely 
piled,  many  of  these  moist  cones  would  be  lost 
through  mould  and  decay. 

The  numbers  of  cones  hoarded  for  winter  by 
each  squirrel  varies  with  different  winters  and 
also  with  individuals.  I  have  many  times  counted 
upwards  of  two  hundred  per  squirrel.  During 
years  of  scanty  cone-crop  the  squirrels  claim 
the  entire  crop.  The  outcry  raised  against  the 
squirrel  for  preventing  far  extension,  by  con- 
suming all  the  seeds,  is  I  think  in  the  same  class 
as  the  cry  against  the  woodpecker;  it  appears  a 
cry  raised  by  those  who  see  only  the  harm  with- 
out the  accompanying  good.  The  fact  is  that 
many  of  the  cones  are  never  eaten;  more  are 
stored  than  are  wanted;  some  are  forgotten, 
while  others  are  left  by  the  death  of  the  squirrel. 
Thus  many  are  stored  and  left  uneaten  in  places 
where  they  are  likely  to  germinate  and  produce 
trees.  John  Muir  too  believes  that  the  Doug- 

327 


las  and   Fremont  squirrels   are   beneficial   to 
forest-extension . 

Commonly  the  cones  are  stored  in  the  same 
place  year  after  year.  In  dining,  also,  the  squir- 
rel uses  a  log,  limb,  or  stump  year  after  year. 
Thus  bushels  of  the  slowly  decaying  scales  and 
cobs  accumulate  in  one  place.  It  is  not  uncom- 
mon for  these  accumulations  to  cover  a  square 
rod  to  the  depth  of  two  feet. 

I  know  of  a  few  instances  in  which  squirrels 
stowed  cones  in  the  edge  of  a  brook  beneath  the 
water.  One  of  these  places  being  near  my  cabin, 
I  kept  track  of  it  until  the  cones  were  used,  which 
was  in  the  spring.  In  early  autumn  the  cones 
were  frozen  in,  and  there  they  remained,  unvis- 
ited  I  think,  until  the  break-up  of  the  ice  in 
April.  Then  a  squirrel  appeared,  to  drag  them 
from  their  cold  storage.  He  carried  each  by 
to  his  regular  dining-place.  Clasping  the  cone 
vertically,  base  up,  in  his  fore  paws,  he  snipped 
off  the  scales  and  ate  the  seeds  beneath  in  regu- 
lar order,  turning  the  cone  as  he  proceeded  as 
though  it  were  an  ear  of  corn  and  he  were  eating 
the  kernels. 

328 


n 

I  have  often  waited  to  see  a  squirrel  go  for 
something  to  eat  after  a  snowstorm.  This  he  did 
in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  Without  hunting  or 
hesitation  he  went  hopping  across  the  snow  to  a 
spot  immediately  above  his  supplies,  where  he 
at  once  pawed  his  way  down  into  the  snow  and 
came  up  with  a  cone. 

In  rambling  the  woods  I  have  often  heard 
these  squirrels  barking  and  "  chickareeing  "  with 
wild  hilarity,  apparently  from  the  pure  joy  of 
living.  Then  again  they  proclaimed  my  dis- 
tant approach,  or  presence,  with  unnecessary 
vigor.  The  energetic  protest  they  make  against 
the  trespasser  in  their  woods,  is  often,  if  not  al- 
ways, taken  by  big  game  as  a  warning.  Gener- 
ally on  hearing  this  the  game  will  be  all  alert  for 
some  seconds,  and  occasionally  will  move  off  to 
a  more  commanding  position.  Sometimes  birds 
will  stop  and  listen  when  this  tree-top  sentinel 
shouts  warnings  which  have  often  saved  big 
game  from  being  shot.  Most  hunters  hate  this 
squirrel. 

There  are  brief  periods  in  winter  when  these 
squirrels  disappear  for  days  at  a  time.  The  kind 

329 


of 

of  weather  does  not  appear  to  be  a  determining 
factor  in  this.  During  this  disappearance  they 
probably  take  a  hibernating  sleep;  anyway,  I 
have  in  a  few  cases  seen  them  so  soundly  asleep 
that  the  fall  and  fracture  of  their  tree  did  not 
awaken  them.  They  sometimes  live,  temporarily 
at  least,  in  holes  in  the  ground,  but  the  home  is 
usually  in  a  hollow  limb  or  a  cavern  in  a  tree- 
trunk  well  toward  the  top  of  the  tree.  Com- 
monly four  young  ones  are  brought  forth  at  a 
birth.  Cunning,  happy  midgets  they  are  when 
first  beginning  their  acquaintance  with  the 
wooded  world,  and  taking  sun  baths  on  a  high 
limb  of  their  house  tree. 

Just  how  long  they  live  no  one  appears  to 
know.  As  pets  they  have  been  kept  for  ten 
years.  A  pair  lived  near  my  cabin  for  eight 
years,  then  disappeared.  Whether  they  mi- 
grated or  met  a  violent  death,  I  never  knew. 
There  was  another  pair  in  the  grove  that  I  kept 
track  of  through  eleven  years.  This  grove  was  a 
wedge-shaped  one  of  about  ten  acres  that  stood 
between  two  brooks.  With  but  few  exceptions, 
the  trees  were  lodge-pole  pine.  My  acquaintance 

330 


in  Jut 


with  the  pair  began  one  day  in  early  autumn. 
Both  set  up  such  a  wild  chatter  as  I  approached 
the  grove  that  I  first  thought  that  something 
was  attacking  them.  Seated  upon  a  log  close  to 
the  tree  which  they  occupied,  I  watched  them 
for  three  or  four  hours.  They  in  turn  watched 
me.  Failing  to  dislodge  me  by  vehement  de- 
nunciation, they  quieted  down  and  eyed  me 
with  intense  curiosity.  I  sat  perfectly  still. 
Evidently  they  were  greatly  puzzled  and  unable 
to  make  out  what  I  was  and  what  of  all  things 
on  earth  it  could  be  that  I  wanted.  With  beady 
eyes  they  stared  at  me  from  a  number  of  posi- 
tions in  several  trees.  Occasionally  in  the  midst 
of  this  silent,  eager  eying  one  would  break  out  in 
a  half-repressed  and  drawling  bark  that  was  un- 
consciously, nervously  repeated  at  brief  inter- 
vals. 

The  next  day  they  silently  allowed  me  to  take 
a  seat.  After  a  brief  stare  they  grew  bold  with 
curiosity  and  descended  to  the  earth  for  a  closer 
investigation.  Pausing  for  a  sharp  look,  both  sud- 
denly exploded  with  wild  chatter  and  fled  with  a 
retchy  barking  to  the  tree-tops.  In  less  than  a 


of  $e  (Kocfites 

month  they  took  peanuts  from  my  fingers. 
They  were  easily  terrified  by  a  loud  noise  or 
sudden  movement.  One  day  an  acquaintance 
came  to  see  me  while  I  was  in  the  grove  with  the 
squirrels.  By  way  of  heralding  his  approach,  he 
flung  a  club  which  fell  with  a  crash  upon  a  brush 
pile  alongside  these  most  nervous  fellows.  They 
fled  in  terror,  and  it  was  two  or  three  days  be- 
fore they  would  come  near  me  again. 

One  year  the  grove  cone-crop  was  a  total  fail- 
ure. As  a  result,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fremont  tem- 
porarily abandoned  their  old  home  and  moved 
to  new  quarters  on  a  mountainside  about  half 
a  mile  distant.  The  day  they  moved  I  was  by 
the  brook,  watching  a  water-ouzel,  when  they 
chanced  to  cross  on  a  fallen  log  near-by.  In 
passing,  one  paused  to  give  a  hasty,  half-glad, 
half-frightened,  chattery  bark  of  recognition. 
They  hastened  across  the  grassy  open  beyond  as 
though  they  felt  themselves  in  danger  when  out 
of  the  woods. 

They  made  a  home  in  an  old  snag,  using  places 
that  were,  I  think,  formerly  used  by  wood- 
peckers. The  afternoon  of  their  arrival  they 

332 


in  f\w 


commenced  to  harvest  cones,  which  were  abund- 
ant on  the  spruce  trees  around  them.  I  often 
wondered  if  they  made  a  preliminary  trip  and 
located  a  food-supply  before  moving,  or  if  they 
simply  started  forth  and  stopped  at  the  first 
favorable  place. 

The  following  summer  they  returned  to  their 
old  quarters  in  the  grove.  The  first  time  that  I 
saw  them  they  were  sitting  upon  a  log  daintily 
making  a  breakfast  of  fresh  mushrooms.  They 
often  ate  the  inner  bark  of  pine  twigs,  and  once  I 
saw  one  of  them  eating  wild  raspberries.  I  never 
saw  these,  or  any  Fremont  squirrel,  robbing  or 
trying  to  rob  a  bird's  nest,  and  as  I  have  never 
noticed  a  bird  disturbed  by  their  presence,  I 
believe  they  are  not  guilty  of  this  serious  offense, 
as  are  most  kinds  of  squirrels. 

Through  eleven  years  I  occasionally  fed  them. 
Apparently  full-grown  at  the  time  of  our  first 
meeting,  they  were  active  and  agile  to  the  last. 
After  eleven  years  they  showed  but  few  and 
minor  signs  of  aging. 

One  was  shot  by  a  gun-carrying  visitor. 
While  I  was  dismissing  the  gunner,  my  atten- 

333 


of 


tion  was  attracted  by  the  wailing  of  her  mate 
when  he  found  her  lifeless  body.  His  grief  was 
most  pitiful;  among  wild  birds  and  animals  I 
have  never  seen  anything  so  pathetic.  Almost 
humanly  he  stared  at  his  mate;  he  fondled  her 
and  tried  to  coax  her  back  to  life,  at  times  al- 
most pleading  and  wailing.  When  I  carried  her 
off  for  burial  he  sat  moveless  and  dazed.  The 
following  day  I  searched  the  grove,  whistling 
and  calling,  but  I  never  saw  him  again. 


E  Estes  Park  region  became  famous  for  its 
scenery  during  the  height  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  gold-fever  half  a  century  ago.  While 
Colorado  was  still  a  Territory,  its  scenes  were 
visited  by  Helen  Hunt,  Anna  Dickinson,  and 
Isabella  Bird,  all  of  whom  sang  the  praises  of 
this  great  hanging  wild  garden. 

The  park  is  a  natural  one, — a  mingling  of 
meadows,  headlands,  groves,  winding  streams 
deeply  set  in  high  mountains  whose  forested 
steeps  and  snowy,  broken  tops  stand  high  and 
bold  above  its  romantic  loveliness.  It  is  a  mar- 
velous grouping  of  gentleness  and  grandeur;  an 
eloquent,  wordless  hymn,  that  is  sung  in  silent, 
poetic  pictures;  a  sublime  garden  miles  in  extent 
and  all  arranged  with  infinite  care. 

Grace  Greenwood  once  declared  that  the  sky- 
line of  this  region,  when  seen  from  out  in  the 
Great  Plains,  loomed  up  like  the  Alps  from  the 
plains  of  Lombardy. 

337 


of 

Long's  Peak, "  King  of  the  Rocky  Mountains," 
dominates  these  scenes.  Around  this  peak, 
within  a  radius  of  fifteen  miles,  is  a  striking  and 
composite  grouping  of  the  best  features  of  the 
Rocky  Mountain  scenery.  Again  and  again  I 
have  explored  every  nook  and  height  of  this 
scenic  mountain  wilderness,  enjoying  its  for- 
ests, lakes,  and  canons  during  every  month  of 
the  year. 

Frost  and  fire  have  had  much  to  do  with  its 
lines  and  landscapes.  Ice  has  wrought  bold 
sculptures,  while  fire  made  the  graceful  open 
gardens,  forest-framed  and  flower-filled  in  the 
sun.  The  region  was  occupied  by  the  Ice  King 
during  the  last  glacial  period.  Many  rounded 
peaks,  U-shaped,  polished  gorges,  enormous 
morainal  embankments,  upwards  of  fifty  lakes 
and  tarns  —  almost  the  entire  present  striking 
landscape  —  were  shaped  through  the  ages  by 
the  slow  sculpturing  of  the  ice.  Forest  fires  have 
made  marked  changes,  and  many  of  the  wide 
poetic  places  —  the  grassy  parks  —  in  the  woods 
are  largely  due  to  severe  and  repeated  burn- 
ings. 

338 


LONG'S   PEAK   AND   ESTES    PARK 


(Region 


This  locality  has  been  swept  by  fire  again  and 
again.  Most  of  the  forest  is  less  than  two  hun- 
dred years  of  age.  During  the  past  two  hundred 
years,  beginning  with  1707,  there  have  been  no 
less  than  seven  forest  fires,  two  of  which  appear 
to  have  swept  over  most  of  the  region.  There 
probably  were  other  fires,  the  records  of  which 
have  vanished.  The  dates  of  these  scourges  and 
in  many  cases  the  extent  of  their  ravages  were 
burned  into  the  annual  rings  of  a  number  of 
trees  which  escaped  with  their  lives  and  lived  on, 
carrying  these  fire-records  down  to  us.  These 
fires,  together  with  the  erosion  which  followed, 
had  something  to  do  with  the  topography  and 
the  scenery  of  this  section.  There  are  a  few 
ugly  scars  from  recent  fires,  but  most  of  the 
burned  areas  were  reforested  with  reasonable 
promptness.  Some  crags,  however,  may  have 
lost  for  centuries  their  trees  and  vegetation. 
Other  areas,  though  losing  trees,  gained  in  mead- 
ows. I  am  strongly  inclined  to  ascribe  much  of 
the  openness  —  the  existence  even  —  of  Estes, 
Allen's,  and  Middle  Parks  to  repeated  fires, 
some  of  which  probably  were  severe.  Thus  we 

339 


of 


may  look  down  from  the  heights  and  enjoy  the 
mingling  beauty  and  grandeur  of  forest  and 
meadow  and  still  realize  that  fire,  with  all  its 
destructiveness,  may  help  to  make  the  gardens 
of  the  earth. 

A  dozen  species  of  trees  form  the  forests  of 
this  section.  These  forests,  delightfully  inviting, 
cover  the  mountains  below  the  altitude  of 
eleven  thousand  feet.  This  rich  robe,  draping 
from  the  shoulders  to  the  feet  of  the  mountains, 
appears  a  dark  purple  from  a  distance.  A  great 
robe  it  hangs  over  every  steep  and  slope,  smooth, 
wrinkled,  and  torn;  pierced  with  pinnacles  and 
spires,  gathered  on  terraces  and  headlands,  up- 
lifted on  the  swells,  and  torn  by  canons.  Here 
and  there  this  forest  is  beautified  with  a  ragged- 
edged  grass-plot,  a  lake,  or  a  stream  that  flows, 
ever  singing,  on. 

The  trees  which  brave  the  heights  and  main- 
tain the  forest  frontier  among  the  storms,  are 
the  Engelmann  spruce,  sub-alpine  fir,  arctic 
willow,  black  birch,  quaking  aspen,  and  limber 
pine.  For  the  most  part,  timber-line  is  a  trifle 
above  eleven  thousand  feet,  but  in  a  few  places 

340 


the  trees  climb  up  almost  to  twelve  thousand. 
Most  of  the  trees  at  timber-line  are  distorted 
and  stunted  by  the  hard  conditions.  Snow 
covers  and  crushes  them;  cold  chains  their  ac- 
tivity through  the  greater  part  of  the  year;  the 
high  winds  drain  their  sap,  persecute  them  with 
relentless  sand-blasts,  and  break  their  limbs 
and  roots. 

Among  glacier-records  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains those  on  the  slopes  of  Long's  Peak  are  pre- 
eminent for  magnitude  and  interest.  On  the 
western  slope  of  this  peak  the  ice  stream  de- 
scended into  the  upper  end  of  Glacier  Gorge, 
where  it  united  with  streams  from  Mt.  Barrat 
and  McHenry  Peak.  Here  it  flowed  northward 
for  two  miles  through  the  now  wonderfully  ice- 
carved  Glacier  Gorge.  Beyond  the  gorge  heavy 
ice  rivers  flooded  down  to  this  ice  stream  from 
Thatch-Top,  Taylor,  Otis,  and  Hallett  Peaks. 
A  mile  beyond  the  gorge  it  was  deflected  to  the 
east  by  the  solid  slopes  of  Flat-Top  and  Mt. 
Hallett.  It  descended  to  about  the  altitude  of 
eight  thousand  feet.  Along  its  lower  course,  the 
lateral  moraine  on  the  south  side  dammed  up  a 


of  tfc 


number  of  small  water  channels  that  drained 
the  northern  slope  of  Battle  Mountain. 

On  the  northern  slope  of  the  Peak  a  boulder 
field  begins  at  the  altitude  of  thirteen  thousand 
feet  and  descends  over  a  wide  field,  then  over  a 
terraced  slope.  Though  probably  not  of  great 
depth,  it  will  average  a  mile  wide  and  extends 
four  miles  down  the  slope.  It  contains  an  im- 
mense amount  of  material,  enough  to  form  a 
great  mountain-peak.  Probably  the  greatest 
array  of  glacial  debris  is  the  Mills  Moraine  on 
the  east  side  of  the  Peak.  This  covers  several 
thousand  acres,  consists  of  boulders,  rock-frag- 
ments, and  rock-flour,  and  in  places  is  several 
hundred  feet  deep. 

Where  has  all  this  wreckage  come  from? 
Some  geologists  have  expressed  the  opinion  that 
ages  ago  Long's  Peak  was  two  thousand  or  so 
feet  higher.  At  the  time  of  its  great  height, 
Long's  Peak  was  united  with  the  near  surround- 
ing peaks,  —  Meeker,  Washington,  and  Storm, 
—  and  all  stood  together  as  one  peak.  The 
present  shattered  condition  of  these  peaks,  their 
crumbling  nature,  the  mountain  masses  of  de- 

342 


bris  on  the  slopes  below,  all  of  which  must  have 
come  from  heights  above,  suggest  this  explana- 
tion. But  to  take  it  as  it  now  is,  to  stand  on  this 
crumbling  peak  to-day  and  look  down  upon  the 
lakes,  moraines,  polished  gorges,  —  all  the  vast 
and  varied  glacial  works  and  ruins,  —  is  for  the 
geological  student  startling  and  profoundly  elo- 
quent. 

Above  the  altitude  of  thirteen  thousand  feet 
are  many  fields  of  "eternal  snow,"  and  a  dozen 
miles  to  the  south  of  Long's  Peak  is  the  Arapa- 
hoe  Glacier ;  while  northward  are  the  Andrews, 
Sprague,  and  Hallett  Glaciers  within  ten  miles. 
Though  all  these  are  small,  each  exhibits  in  a 
striking  manner  the  Ice  Age  in  a  nutshell.  On 
the  east  side  of  Long's  Peak,  too,  is  a  moving 
ice-field  that  might  well  be  classed  as  a  glacier. 
By  this  ice  begins  the  upper  extent  of  the  Mills 
Moraine,  and  in  the  gorge  just  below  —  one  of 
the  most  utterly  wild  places  on  the  earth  —  is 
Chasm  Lake. 

Most  of  the  glacier  lakes  are  in  gorges  or  on 
terraces  between  the  altitudes  of  eleven  thou- 
sand and  twelve  thousand  feet.  Almost  all  have 

343 


of 


a  slope  or  steep  rising  above  them,  down  which 
the  ice  descended  while  gouging  out  their  basins. 

Grand  Lake,  one  of  the  largest  reservoirs 
constructed  by  the  Ice  King  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, is  three  miles  in  length  and  one  in  width, 
cut  into  bed-rock.  This  lake  is  less  than  nine 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  It  is  in  the  east- 
ern extremity  of  Middle  Park,  a  few  miles  to  the 
west  of  Long's  Peak.  Great  peaks  rising  from 
it,  a  great  moraine  sweeping  along  its  northerly 
and  westerly  shores,  it  peacefully  shows  the  ti- 
tanic beautifying  landscape  labors  of  the  ice. 

The  glacial  winter  is  over.  The  present  snow- 
fall over  this  section  is  about  one  half  that  of  the 
Alps.  Here  snow-line  is  thirteen  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  while  in  the  Alps  it  is  four  thou- 
sand feet  lower.  Down  from  the  heights  of  all 
the  high  peaks  pour  many  white  streams  ever 
singing  the  song  of  the  sea. 

In  these  mountains  there  are  many  deep 
gorges  and  canons.  Most  of  these  are  short  and 
ice-polished.  The  Thompson  Canon  is  one  of 
the  longest  and  finest.  Its  twenty  miles  of 
walled  length  is  full  of  scenic  contrasts  and  pict- 

344 


uresque  varieties.  The  lovely  mingles  with  the 
wild.  In  places  its  walls  stand  two  thousand  feet 
above  the  river  and  the  daisies.  The  walls  are 
many-formed,  rugged,  polished,  perpendicular, 
terraced,  and  statuesque,  and  are  adorned  with 
panels  of  rusty  veneer,  with  decorative  lichen 
tracery  or  with  vertical  meadows  of  velvet  moss. 
Blossoms  fill  many  niches  with  poetry,  while 
shrubbery,  concealing  in  its  clinging  the  cracks 
in  the  wall,  forms  many  a  charming  festoon. 

In  some  stretches  the  parallel  walls  go  straight 
away,  well  separated ;  then  they  curve,  or  crowd 
so  closely  that  there  is  barely  room  for  the  river 
and  the  road.  At  intervals  the  walls  sweep  out- 
ward in  short,  grand  semicircles  and  inclose 
ideal  wild  gardens  of  pines,  grass,  flowers,  and 
the  winding  river.  The  river  is  ever  varying  its 
speed,  its  surface,  and  its  song.  Here  it  is  a 
boulder-framed  mirror  reflecting  the  aspens  and 
the  sky,  there  a  stretch  of  foam-flow;  now  it 
rests  in  a  wild  pool  pierced  with  sharp  rocks, 
now  it  hurries  on  to  plunge  and  roar  over  a  ter- 
race of  rocks,  then  on,  always  on,  toward  the 
sea. 

34S 


of 

Speckled  and  rainbow  trout  dart  in  the 
streams.  Mountain  sheep  climb  and  pose  on  the 
crags;  bear,  deer,  and  mountain  lions  are  still 
occasionally  seen  prowling  the  woods  or  hurry- 
ing across  the  meadows.  The  wise  coyote  is  also 
occasionally  seen  darting  under  cover,  and  he  is 
frequently  heard  during  the  night.  Here  among 
the  evergreens  is  found  that  wee  and  audacious 
bit  of  intensely  interesting  and  animated  life,  the 
Fremont  squirrel,  and  also,  one  of  the  dearest  of 
all  small  animals,  the  merry  chipmunk.  Within 
this  territory  are  a  number  of  beaver  colonies, 
whose  ways  I  have  described  in  earlier  chapters. 

The  entire  region  is  a  wild-flower  garden. 
Bloom-time  lasts  all  summer  long.  The  scores 
of  streams  which  splash  down  from  the  snows 
are  fringed  with  ferns  and  blossoms.  There  are 
many  areas  petalled  with  red,  blue,  purple,  and 
gold.  Difference  of  altitude,  topography,  and 
moisture-distribution  induce  nearly  a  thousand 
varieties  to  bloom  in  and  to  color  this  glad  wild 
garden.  July  is  white  with  Mariposa  lilies.  Wild 
roses,  sweet  peas,  daisies,  tiger  lilies,  violets, 
orchids,  primroses,  fringed  blue  gentians  give 

346 


(Beaton 


their  color  and  their  perfume  to  the  friendly  air. 
Here  flourishes  the  Rocky  Mountain  columbine. 

The  region  is  gladdened  with  many  kinds  of 
birds.  On  the  heights  lives  the  serene,  self-con- 
tained ptarmigan;  the  "camp-bird"  resides  in 
the  upland  forests;  hummingbirds  flit  here  and 
there  ;  the  robin  sings  and  re-sings  its  song  over 
the  lowlands  ;  blackbirds  swing  on  the  willows  by 
the  brooks  ;  the  wise  magpie  spreads  his  spotted 
wings  and  explores  every  corner.  Along  the 
cascading  streams  is  the  darling  bird  of  the 
Rockies,  the  cheerful  water-ouzel.  Here,  too, 
the  hermit  thrush  charms  the  air  with  a  wonder- 
ful wealth  of  melody,  and  here  the  solitaire, 
perhaps  the  most  inspiring  of  all  songsters, 
pours  his  divine  melody  amid  pines,  crags,  and 
the  sounds  of  winds  and  falling  waters. 

Numerous  trails  wind  through  this  region, 
and  over  these  one  may  visit  Specimen  Mount- 
ain, an  old  volcano,  Fern  and  Odessa  Lakes, 
—  splendid  tree-bordered  alpine  tarns,  —  Wild 
Basin,  Locke  Vale,  Wind  River,  Glacier  Gorge, 
and  the  summit  of  Long's  Peak.  The  Flat-Top 
trail  is  the  greatest  one;  this  touches  a  variety 

347 


of 


of  scenes,  crosses  the  continental  divide  at 
twelve  thousand  feet,  and  connects  Grand  Lake 
and  Estes  Park. 

This  splendid  natural  recreation  -  ground 
might  well  "be  held  for  the  use  of  the  people." 
It  is  close  to  the  geographical  centre  of  the 
country,  is  easily  accessible,  has  an  excellent 
climate,  and  as  a  National  Park  it  would  become 
a  scenic  resource  of  enormous  and  exhaustless 
richness. 


THE  END 


Allen's  Park,  339. 
Andrews  Glacier,  343. 
Arapahoe  Glacier,  251,  255,  260, 

261,  343. 

Arapahoe  Peak,  260. 
Ash,  seeds,  296. 
Aspen,  after  a  fire,  160. 
Aspen  Gulch,  13-15. 
Avalanches.  See  Rock  avalanche, 

Snowslides. 

Basswood,  seeds,  300. 

Bears,  escaping  from  a  forest 
fire,  143,  144;  a  mother  and 
cubs,  240. 

Bears,  black,  two  cubs  and  a 
forest  fire,  144;  attacked  by 
wasps,  1 80;  carrying  pine 
cones,  301. 

Bears,  grizzly,  and  a  forest  fire, 
144;  and  roasted  deer  after 
the  fire,  149,  150;  two  pet 
cubs,  207-209;  the  further 
history  of  Johnny,  209-219; 
curiosity,  214;  agility,  215. 

Beaver,  the  Moraine  Colony, 
19-46;  characteristics  and  use- 
fulness, 19,  40,  41,  46,  47; 
dams,  21,  31-34,  45,  53,  54; 
houses,  21,  22,  31,  42,  44,  54; 
felling  trees,  21,  24,  25,  58-65; 
harvest  piles,  22,  41,  42,  56,  57, 


65,  66;  cooperation,  22-24,  43» 
44;  working  by  daylight,  23, 
62;  play,  23;  transporting  logs 
and  branches,  23,  24,  54-62; 
village  destroyed  by  fire,  26, 
27;  attacked  by  mountain 
lion,  28,  29,  35,  36;  attacked 
by  coyote,  29,  30,  36;  journey- 
ing by  water  and  by  land,  30, 
31 ;  migration  from  ruined  vil- 
lage, 29-31  ;  raided  by  trappers, 
31;  need  of  ponds,  34,  35; 
house  dynamited,  35;  young, 
36,  37;  a  migration  witnessed, 
381  39:  aged  beaver,  38,  39, 
51,  52,  63-65;  explorations 
of  old  males,  39,  40;  the  first 
conservationist,  40, 41 ;  making 
a  new  pond,  44,  45;  pitchy 
wood  and  dead  wood  avoided, 
45,  46  ;  canals,  45,  56;  ford, 
45,  52,  66;  the  Spruce  Tree 
Colony,  51-67;  tunnels,  53;  log 
slides,  54-56 ;  the  Island  Colony, 
6l,  62;  ready  for  winter,  66. 

Beetles,  depredations  in  forests, 
174-181,  195. 

Big  Thompson  River,  345. 

Big  tree,  immune  from  insects, 
173;  seeds,  299. 

Bighorn.  See  Sheep,  mountain. 

Birds,  of  Estes  Park,  347. 


351 


"Blizzard,  311-316. 
Borers,  depredations  in  forests, 
182,  195. 

Camp-bird.  See  Jay,  Rocky 
Mountain. 

Camp-fires,  as  origins  of  forest 
fires,  152,  153,  155,  156. 

Carpenter,  Prof.  L.  G.,  on  for- 
ests, 127. 

Chapman,  Frank  M.,  200. 

Chasm  Lake,  343. 

Cher.y,  seed-sowing,  298,  299. 

Chipmunk,  325. 

Cimarron,  242. 

Clouds,  of  mountain-tops,  80, 81 ; 
a  snow-cloud,  81-84. 

Cocoanut,  302. 

Conifers,  seed-distribution,  297, 
298. 

Cottonwood,  seeds,  296,  301. 

Couple,  elderly,  in  a  log  house, 

IIO-II2. 

Court-House  Rock,  242,  243. 

Coyote,  attacking  beaver,  29, 
30,36;  fleeing  from  a  forest-fire, 
143;  after  the  fire,  149. 

Deer,  in  a  forest  fire,  142,  143. 

Dendroctonus,  196. 

Dogs,  story  of  a  tramp  dog,  93- 
105;  Scotch  and  the  bear 
Johnny,  2 13;  Scotch  in  a  moun- 
tain blizzard,  309-320. 


Electrical  storms,  85-88.  \ 
Elk,  in  a  forest  fire,  142. 


Erosion,  after  forest  fires,  165, 
1 66;  by  glaciers,  251;  a  study 
of,  271,  272,  281-286. 

Estes  Park,  glaciers  in,  260,  338, 
341-343;  attractions,  337,  338, 
348;  forest  fires,  339;  forests, 
340,  341;  Long's  Peak,  341- 
343;  lakes,  343,  344;  streams 
and  canons,  344,  345;  animal 
life,  346;  flowers,  346,  347; 
birds,  347;  trails,  347. 

Fern  Lake,  347. 

Fir,  Douglas,  279. 

Fires.    See  Forest  Fires. 

Flat-Top,  341,  347. 

Flowers,  of  Estes  Park,  346,  347. 

Foot,  an  injured,  233,  234,  241- 

243- 

Forest  fires,  watching,  139-170; 
varying  speed  of,  141, 142, 167; 
wild  animals  in,  142-145; 
rarely  make  aclean  sweep,  145, 
146;  dead  trees  burning  after, 
146,  147;  extent,  147;  destroy 
humus,  148,  149;  loss  of  ani- 
mal life  in,  149;  storm  of  ashes 
after  a  fire,  150,  151;  upbuild- 
ing after,  152;  origins  of,  152, 

153.  155.  156,  162,  163,   176; 
methods  of  fighting,  152,  153, 
163-165;  trees  standing  after, 

154,  158;  geysers  of  flame,  158, 
!59>  *69;  duration  of,  1 61,  162; 
protection    against,    163-165; 
erosion  after,  165,  166;  explo- 
sions of  rock  caused  by,  169, 


352 


170;  interrelation  with  destruc- 
tive insects,  173,  174,  186; 
wood  preserved  by,  187. 

Forests,  as  wood-producers,  124; 
as  water-distributors,  124, 125; 
other  uses,  125;  as  moderators 
of  climate,  125,  126;  as  wind- 
breaks, 126;  delaying  evapo- 
ration, 126-129;  necessary  to 
agriculture,  127,  128;  as  reser- 
voirs, 128-130;  as  regulators  of 
stream-flow,  130;  as  makers  of 
soil,  131,  132;  as  bird-shelters, 
I32»  133;  as  sanitary  agents, 
133;  evils  following  destruction 
of,  134;  preeminent  in  pro- 
moting the  general  welfare, 
!34»  r35l  insect  enemies  of, 
173-189;  observations  of  a  for- 
ested and  a  deforested  region 
during  a  rain,  267-287;  the 
forest  floor,  273,  274. 

Fort  Garland,  112,  113,  118,  119. 

Fungi,  enemies  of  trees,  183,  184. 

Fungus,  false- tinder,  184. 

Glacier  Gorge,  341,  347. 

Glaciers,  work  of,  247-250; 
Muir  and  Henderson  on,  250; 
rate  of  movement,  251;  Ara- 
pahoe,  251,  255,  260,  261; 
grinding  and  excavating  pow- 
ers, 251-253;  moraines,  253- 
255;  lakes  made  by,  253,  343; 
strange  freight,  255,  256;  min- 
eral wealth,  256;  making  soil, 
257;  formation,  258,  259;  in 


the  Rocky  Mountains,  258, 
260-263,  338,  341-343;  berg- 
schlunds  and  crevasses,  260, 
261 ;  pleasures  of  investigation, 
263. 

Grand  Lake,  348. 

Grand  River,  '309;  forest  fires 
on,  140-153. 

Granite  Pass,  wind  in,  75-77. 

Greenwood,  Grace,  337. 

Ground-hog,  282. 

Grouse,  fleeing  from  a  forest  fire, 
144. 

Hallett  Glacier,  343. 
Hallett  Peak,  341. 
Henderson,  Junius,  quoted,  250. 
Home's  Peak,  102. 

Ice,  climbing  with  a  dog  over, 
310,  314,  317-320. 

Insects,  in  the  forest,  173-189; 
interrelation  with  forest-fires, 
173. 174. 1 86;  beetles,  174-181 ; 
weevils,  182;  borers,  182;  serial 
attacks,  182,  183;  interrelation 
with  parasitic  plants,  183,  184; 
seriousness  of  their  ravages, 
185,  1 86,  189;  control  of  de- 
predations, 187-189;  wood- 
peckers the  enemies  of,  193- 
204. 

Ironwood,  seeds,  300. 

Jay,  crested,  149. 
Jay,  Rocky  Mountain,  or  gray 
jay,  or  camp-bird,  149, 180,223. 


353 


Lake  City,  223. 

Landslides,  a  night  and  a  day  of, 
232-239;  on  a  deforested  slope, 
281,  282;  a  liquefied  landslide, 
283,  284.  See  Rock  avalanche. 

Leadville,  98-100. 

Lightning,  85,  86;  trees  struck 
by,  175,  176,  278. 

Linden,  seeds,  300. 

Lion,  mountain,  attacking  bea- 
ver, 28,  29,  35,  36;  an  adven- 
ture, 102;  fleeing  from  a  forest 
fire,  143. 

Little  Cimarron  River,  228,  234, 
240-242. 

Locke  Vale,  347. 

Locust,  honey,  seeds  and  pods, 
299,  300. 

Log,  with  a  cargo  of  seeds,  292-294. 

Long's  Peak,  310,  338;  wind  on, 
75-78;  area  of  summit,  78; 
altitude,  85;  thunder-storms 
on,  85;  forest  fires  seen  from, 
140;  Mills  Moraine,  263,  342; 
glaciers,  341 ;  boulder  field,  342; 
geological  history,  342,  343. 

McHenry  Peak,  341. 
Magpie,  149,  347. 
Mangrove,  seeding,  302. 
Maple,  red,  seeds,  296. 
Maple,  silver,  seeds,  295. 
Middle  Park,  339,  344. 
Mills  Moraine,  263,  342,  343. 
Mississippi   River,   origin  of  its 

mud,  285;  a  seed-laden  log  on, 

292-294. 


Missouri  River,  its  channel  full 
of  dissolved  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, 284. 

Mt.  Barrat,  341. 

Mt.  Coxcomb,  crumbling  char- 
acter of,  228-230;  a  night 
climb  in  the  rain,  228-240. 

Mt.  Hallett,  341. 

Mt.  Meeker,  207,  342. 

Mt.  Teller,  88. 

Muir,  John,  quoted,  128,250,327. 

Night,    mountain-climbing    by, 

226-232. 

Nuthatch,  199,  200. 
Nuts,  293-295. 

Orton,  Edward,  Jr.,  quoted,  263. 

Otis  Peak,  341. 

Ouzel.    See  Water-ouzel. 

Parks,     mountain,     openness 
caused  by  forest  fires,  339. 

Persimmons,  299. 

Pine,  lodge-pole,  153,  157,  160; 
spectacular  death  of,  158,  159; 
destroyed  by  beetles,  178; 
seeding,  298. 

Pine,  Western  yellow,  as  a  fire- 
fighter, 1 60,  161;  killed  by 
beetles,  174-176. 

Poisoning,  from  a  spring,  109-1 1 1. 

Poudre  River,  95. 

Ptarmigan,  347. 

Rabbit-Ear  Range,  140. 
Rain,  effects  on  forested  and  de- 
forested slopes,  267-287. 


354 


Ridgway,  226,  233,  243. 

Robin,  270. 

Rock  avalanche,  113-115. 

St.  Vrain  River,  a  rainy  day  at 
the  source,  267-287;  the  two 
branches,  271. 

San  Juan  Mountains,  snow- 
slides  in,  3-15. 

San  Luis  Valley,  117. 

Sangre  de  Cristo  Mountains,  101 , 
109. 

Scotch,  the  collie,  and  the  bear 
cub  Johnny,  213;  in  a  moun- 
tain blizzard,  309-320. 

Seeds  of  trees,  many  devices  for 
sowing,  291 ;  log  cargo  of,  292- 
294;  nuts,  293-295;  winged, 
295-298;  pulp-covered,  298, 
299;  other  wind-carried  seeds, 
299,  300;  hooked,  301;  car- 
ried by  animals,  301;  cata- 
pulted, 301 ;  water-carried, 
302;  prodigality  of  nature  in 
regard  to,  302-305. 

Sheep,  mountain,  or  bighorn,  in 
a  whirlwind,  72,  73;  in  a  forest 
fire,  143. 

Sierra  Blanca,  no;  climbing, 
112-117. 

Snow  slides,  studying,  3;  an 
adventure  with  a  slide,  4-15. 

Snow-storm,  climbing  above  a, 
81-83;  a  mountain  blizzard, 
3H-3I6. 

Solitaire,  287,  347. 

Specimen  Mountain,  347. 


Spring,  a  poisonous,  109. 
Spruce,    Engelmann,    153,    155, 

273- 

Squirrel,  Fremont,  an  [interview, 
276,  277;  character  and  man- 
ners, 323,  324;  food  and  har- 
vesting, 324-329,  333;  hiber- 
nation, 329,  330;  homes,  330; 
young,  330;  longevity,  330, 
333;  story  of  a  pair,  330-334. 

Sycamore,  seeds,  297. 

Taylor  Peak,  341. 
Thatch-Top,  341. 
Thompson  Canon,  344,  345. 
Thrush,  Audubon's  hermit,  287, 

347- 

Trees,  relations  to  mankind,  123, 
134>  *35;  as  sanitary  agents, 
133;  medicines  and  foods  pro- 
duced by,  133,  134;  uprooted 
and  transported  by  a  land- 
slide, 236-239;  up  a  tree  in  a 
storm,  276-278;  seeds  and 
seeding,  291-305.  See  also 
Forests. 

Turret-Top,  243. 

Uncompahgre    Mountains,    trip 

through,  223-243. 
Uncompahgre  Peak,  224. 

Wasps,  feeding  on  grubs,   179; 

and  bear,  180. 
Water-ouzel,  269-271,  347. 
Weather,    of     alpine     zone    of 

Rocky  Mountains,  71-89. 


355 


Weevils,  in  forest-trees,  182,  191. 

Wet  Mountain  valley,  101. 

Wild  Basin,  347. 

Willows,  seeds,  296. 

Wind  River,  347. 

Winds,   on   mountain-tops,    72- 

80;  drying  powers  of,  126,  127; 

a  mountain  blizzard,  311-316. 
Witch-hazel,  flowers  and  seeds, 

301. 


Woodpecker,  Batchelder,  197. 

Woodpecker,  downy,  the  most 
useful  bird  citizen,  193,  200; 
a  downy  at  work,  201-204. 

Woodpecker,  hairy,  197,  198. 

Woodpeckers,  value  as  destroy- 
ers of  noxious  insects,  193-198; 
holes,  198,  199;  winter  lodg- 
ings, 199;  nesting-holes,  199, 
200. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


THE 

LAND  OF  LITTLE  RAIN 

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